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CHRONICLES OF “THE 
LITTLE SISTERS” 


/ 

BY 


/ , 

•MARY E..MANNIX 

AntbOr of "The Tales Tim Told Us,” "The Fortunes of 
A Little Emigrant, etc. 




NOTRE DAME, INDIANA: 
THE AVE MARIA. 


\ 


TWO COPIES RECElVfiU. 

Library of Co!ajco»«i^ 

QffUo 0 f 

fER «> 7 ^800 

li,gm»r of Copifrlshl& 




V 



Copyrighted, 1899, 

By rev. D. E. HUDSON. C. S. C. 


6i£Cw‘’%D 


\ V . \ ^ 


TO “the 

LITTLE SISTERS OF 
THE POOR.” 



CONTENTS. 


I. — A Romance of Real Life 7 

II. — Grandmother O’Halloran’s 

Story . . 25 

III. — Lizzie’s Father . . 49 

IV. — Old Kitty’s Legacy . 61 

V. — A Strange Experience . 68 

VI. — The Story of William Bodine 78 

VII. — An Eccentric Old Couple 97 

VIII. — A Life-Long Sorrow . 105 

IX. — A Strange, Sad Story . 114 

X. — Giuseppe Poghi 124 

XI. — The Fortunes of M. Croque- 

laire . . 137 

XII. — ^Jessamy Traber . . 149 

XIII. — The Story of a Curse . .166 

XIV. — An Old Man’s Sorrow . 180 

XV. — A Peace-Breaker . . 205 

XVI. — A Heart History . . 217 

XVII. — The “Smelling Committee” 233 

5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


XVIII. — Uttle Miss Powers . . 247 

XIX. — A Wronged Priest . 260 

XX. — More Than Brothers . .280 

XXI. — The Tittle White Old Woman 293 
XXII.— “Married Eliza” . . 306 

XXIII. — A Sorrowing Heart . 322 

XXIV. — Madame Perret’s Secret 336 

XXV. — Two Heroines . . 355 




CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE 

sisters;^ 

I. 

A ROMANCE OF RRAI, I, IFF. 

I T was my custom at one time to pay 
'jr a weekly visit to the Home for the 
I Aged in charge of the I^ittle Sisters 
of the Poor; and in this manner I 
became very well acquainted with many of 
the inmates, both male and female. As a 
rule, these children of poverty are garrul- 
ous in their old age, and not indisposed 
to reveal their histories to a sympathetic 
soul. Many of them have very sad stories 
to tell; one often wonders how they have 
been able to survive their misfortunes. 
And the responsive heart, thrilled to the 
core by these recitals of misery and priva- 
tion, offers a prayer of thankfulness to 
God, who has mercifully provided for them 
a quiet haven, where they may spend at 


8 


CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


least the few remaining days of life in 
peace. 

One day, while passing through the 
infirmary, I observed a new face on one 
of the pillows. It was a sweet, pathetic 
face, framed in bands of yellowish white 
hair, that must have been a light golden 
blonde in youth. A pair of soft brown 
eyes looked up at me, as I paused at the 
bedside. “Come, do not stop now,” 
whispered the Sister who accompanied me. 
“Later I will tell you about her. At 
present she is too feeble to speak.” I 
followed obediently; and the incident 
soon passed from my mind, as the Sister 
had no time to explain further, being 
summoned elsewhere. 

A few weeks afterward I saw the same 
old woman sitting on the steps of the 
chapel, her rosary in her hand. She wore 
no cap; a red handkerchief was tied 
loosely under her chin, and another of 
the same gay pattern was crossed over 
the bosom of her blue and white cotton 
frock. 

“Good-morning!” I said, pausing for 
a moment. “Are you enjoying the sun- 
shine?” 


A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 


9 


Guten Morgen!'^ she replied, pleas- 
antly. ‘ ‘ Ich spreche nicht Englischy 

Then finding that I understood a little 
of her native tongue, she made room for 
me on the step beside her, and began to 
babble, in a sweet low voice, on the beauty 
of the sunlight and the healthfulness of 
fresh air. I gave her a rose from the 
bouquet I had gathered for St. Joseph. 
She kissed it and laid it tenderly on her 
lap. 

Just then the Sister with whom I had 
visited, the infirmary on the day of my 
first meeting with the old woman came 
briskly across the yard, carrying a faded 
cotton umbrella in her hand. 

“See what I have found, Frau Weis- 
man!” she said gaily, in German. “If 
you will sit in the sun all day long, you 
must at least have some shelter for your 
head in the hottest hours.” So saying she 
raised the umbrella, which the old woman 
took, with many thanks. 

“Poor thing!” said the kind nun, after 
we had left her. “She was so long shut 
out from the sun and light that she never 
can get enough of it, now that she is free.” 

“Free!” I exclaimed. “Surely that 


10 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


kind-faced, lovely old woman was never 
in prison ? ’ ’ 

“Yes,” replied my companion, setting 
her lips hard together — “in prison and 
underground, chained too, for nearly seven 
years. Ah, it is a terrible story! You 
have observed the unnatural pallor of her 
countenance. That accounts for it.” 

‘ ‘ Might a stranger know her story ? ” I 
asked. “What you say seems scarcely 
creditable. ’ ’ 

“So you will think when you have heard 
it all,” said the Sister. “Indeed, the 
whole world ought to know the story, and 
it is not from' me that the edict of silence 
shall go forth. Come, sit with me in my 
little mending room; we shall be alone, 
and I have still half an hour before 
dinner.” 

When I had placed my flowers in water 
before a statue of St. Joseph, the busy 
little creature drew a rocking-chair to the 
open window and bade me be seated; 
then, while vigorously plying her needle 
in and out of a sorely dilapidated stocking, 
she told me the following story: 

‘ ‘ Our good Mother was in Europe in the 
spring, as you know; and to me, though 


A EOMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 


11 


all unworthy, was deputed the task of 
acting in her place. She never makes 
mistakes; I often do, being so impulsive, 
and not meek enough, owing to my im- 
petuosity, for a true lyittle Sister of the 
Poor. But on this occasion I doubt if even 
her course would have been different from 
mine. 

‘ ‘ One morning I was called to the visit- 
ors’ room to meet a stout, kind-looking 
Irish girl, who, with tears in her voice 
and on her cheeks, told me that if I went 
at once to a certain town about fifty miles 

from X , I would find, in a dark, 

underground room of a fine dwelling- 
house, the mother of the owner, chained 
to an iron ring in the wall. 

“‘But this can not be!’ I exclaimed. 

‘ I know something of these people. While 
the gentleman is a Catholic in name only, 

they are of some prominence in D , 

and they could not be guilty of such a 
monstrous crime.’ 

“ ‘ How many of them are guilty I can’t 
say,’ was the reply; ‘but the man himself 
is. I saw him going down there with a 
light, and that is how I found it out. ’ 

‘ ‘ Questioning her, I learned that the 


12 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


family had for a long time been unable 
to keep servants, because of a story having 
gone abroad that the house was haunted. 
Strange noises had been heard from time 
to time. The master and mistress grew 
angry when the rumors were spoken of; 
and the coachman, who had been in the 
family many years, said that, owing to 
some peculiar construction of the cellar, 
the wind passing through the ventilators 
was the source of these strange noises. 

“Our Bridget was both brave and curi- 
ous. One night, having occasion to go 
into the storeroom, she heard something 
like a moan from the cellar beneath; her 
next move was to take measures to learn 
the cause. Keeping her own counsel, she 
took a candle and went dowstairs. Having 
located the place, she found under the 
storeroom what seemed to be a large closet, 
partitioned off from the coal cellar. It was 
locked, and resisted all her efforts to open 
it. Finally, after returning upstairs, she 
went around to the other side of the house, 
and marked, from without, what she sup- 
posed to be the ventilators corresponding 
to the locality of the closet. 

“ ‘ Had you any suspicions? ’ I asked. 


A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 13 

‘“I had, Sister,’ she replied. ‘Twice 
of a night I saw the master going down the 
outside way, with a candle in his hand, 
and something that looked like a dish. I 
was at the window, in the dark, saying my 
prayers. Both mornings after I missed 
some potatoes and corn-bread that I left in 
the safe the night before. It wasn’t the 
first time I heard moaning and groaning; 
and I suspicioned that maybe he had some 
poor idiot of a brother or other relation 
down there that he was loath to put into an 
asylum. At any rate, I had no notion of 
meddling with what was none of my busi- 
ness, till the night I told you of. I thought 
I’d stay my month out, and then leave. I 
didn’t like the people overmuch, any way.’ 

‘“The next morning,’ she continued, 
‘ I was up with the day, and went straight 
to the little windows under the storeroom. 
I lit a couple of matches and peeped in. 
And, as sure as I’m a living creature, I 
saw an old woman with her hair streaming 
down her shoulders, walking up and down, 
up and down, and chains clanking after 
her as she went. She saw me too; for 
she slapped her hands together and looked 
at me like one in a terrible daze of fright. 


14 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


I went upstairs again, got the breakfast, 
hurriedly washed the dishes, and packed 
up my clothes ready to go. The folks — 
man and wife and their two little daughters 
— went to town that morning; the coach- 
man with them, of course. When they 
were well started I scoured the house for 
keys, and found about fifty. At the fortieth 
trial I opened the door, and I’ll never tell 
you till you see it for yourself what I saw. 
Filth and rags and misery, and a nice 
darling old German woman chained to the 
wall — the damp, slimy wall. She couldn’t 
understand me, nor I her; but I could just 
make out, Mutter^ Mutter and I made 
sure she was the master’s poor old mother. 
I made signs to her that I’d try to help her 
out of that hole; and, after fastening her 
in again, I put on my bonnet, took my 
duds, and made straight for the town. I 
went to the priest — a kind German Father 
he is, — and told my story. At first he 
thought I was crazy; but pretty soon he 
believed me, and gave me this letter for 
you. Sister.’ 

‘ ‘ Here she produced a note from her 
pocket, and I read: 

“ ‘ Come at once to my house. 


Friedman.’ ’• 


A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 


15 


you come with me, Bridget?* 
I asked. — ‘I’d like nothing better, Sister,’ 
was her answer. 

“We started as soon as possible, arriving 
at the house of the priest about sundown. 
He met us at the door. I found that he 
was convinced of the truth of Bridget’s 
story. Mr. Weisman had married a woman 
of doubtful reputation some years before, 
on whose account a man had been myste- 
riously murdered. Mr. Weisman, who lived 
alone with his mother, had been suspected, 
but never openly accused. He had made 
some lucky speculations and had suddenly 
become rich. But after his marriage, 
which she opposed to the best of her power, 
the old woman was missing. He gave out 
that she had returned to Germany; but a 
person living in the neighborhood, who had 
visited there, could find no trace of her. 
Then it came to be an accepted fact that he 
had placed her in some institution for the 
old and the infirm. It was well known 
that his wife had some mysterious power 
over him; and as she had never been able 
to endure the old woman’s presence in the 
house. Father Friedman supposed she had 
been instrumental in incarcerating her in 


16 CHEONICLES OF “tHE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


the dungeon where Bridget had discovered 
her. 

“ ‘ We must go slowly,’ said the priest, 
‘ or they may circumvent us. There is a 
Catholic family here with whom you may 
lodge for the night, and tomorrow — ’ ‘ Not 
an hour shall I wait. Father! ’ I exclaimed, 
in my indignation. ‘ I will beard the mon- 
ster in his den at once.’ — ‘But you must 
be very careful,’ said the priest. — ‘They 
will not dare touch me! ’ I answered. 
‘ Mother or not, there is some poor creature 
concealed in that cellar; and I will brave 
the worst, taking the consequences.' I felt 
like one inspired. 

“In fifteen minutes,’’ the Sister went 
on, “we were at the house. The family 
were at supper when we arrived. We 
entered the dining-room from the porch, 
unceremoniously; but my heart failed me 
when I saw the two children. 

“ ‘ A word with you, sir,’ I said. The 
man came out, closing the door. ‘What 
is it. Madam? ’ he asked, courteously. 
Then, seeing Bridget, he looked discon- 
certed. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘ I have come for your 
poor old mother, whom you have kept 
chained in a dark cellar for so long a time. 


A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 


17 


Take me to her, or I shall call the police.’ ” 

“And now for the unforeseen part of 
my story. He neither quailed nor blanched 
before my righteous anger, much less did 
he deny the accusation. Opening the door, 
he called out to his wife: ‘ Taura, the 
Little Sisters of the Poor have corne for the 
old woman. I told you long ago we 
should have sent her there. ’ Coolly putting 
his hand in his pocket, he produced a key, 
which he gave me. ‘ Irish! ’ he said, with 
a sneer, turning to Bridget. ‘You are at 
the bottom of this. Go help the good Sister, 
and I wish you both joy of your bargain.’ 
So saying he went back to the dining-room. 

“We met the coachman in the yard. 
To my surprise he voluntarily offered to 
assist us. A rude-looking fellow, there 
was evidently some collusion between him 
and his master. 

‘ ‘ I shall not sicken you with the recital 
of the horrors we saw when we went 
below. God only knows how the poor old 
woman had lived in that darksome, filthy 
hole so long. Yet she seemed strong, 
welcomed us effusively; and when the 
coachman finally broke the rusty chains, 
her joy and thanks were eloquent. 


18 CHRONICLES OF ^‘THE LITTLE SISTERS.’* 


“I was at a loss how to remove her. I 
knew that a freight-train would pass in 
half an hour, and was anxious to get her 
on that if possible; as it would excite less 
remark, and the freight depot is just 
behind our house. But where to find 
something wherewith to cover her ? ‘ I 

know!’ said Bridget, — ‘if it would not be 
stealing. ’ Without waiting for an answer, 
she disappeared, returning with an old- 
fashioned but large and comfortable water- 
proof cloak that she had seen hanging in 
the bath-room. It was just what we 
needed. Wrapping it around her, the 
hood covering her hair which we had 
twisted into some semblance of a knot, 
we carried her up the stairs, in a half- 
unconscious state: the excitement and 
joy of her release now reacting upon her 
poor tired, macerated body. ‘You have 
a carriage,’ I said to the man. ‘Get it 
ready and drive us to the station. ’ 

‘ ‘ While we waited I bethought me that 
the poor creature might be hungry. 

‘ When did you have any food ? ’ I asked. 
‘Last night,’ she replied, feebly. I went 
again to the dining-room. It was empty, 
— not a sound through the house; the 


A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 


19 


family had evidently taken themselves 
upstairs to await our departure. I buttered 
a piece of bread and poured some milk into 
a bowl. The old woman ate and drank 
eagerly. 

“The carriage was soon ready. We 
were just in time for the train. The train- 
men permitted me to lay the poor creature 
on a row of boxes in the car. The coach- 
man put a ten-dollar gold piece in my hand. 
‘ Make her comfortable with it, Sister, ’ he 
said. 'I will get it out of the old man; 
he’s afraid of me. But it won’t do any 
good to make the thing public.’ — ‘Thanks!’ 
I said. ‘ It is not my part to make the affair 
public. My concern is only with this poor 
victim of a son’s ingratitude and cruelty.’ ” 

“Ah, Sister, what a story!’’ I said. 
“Truth is indeed far stranger than fiction.’’ 

“There is no doubt of it,” she contin- 
ued. “I could tell you things — ah! well. 
It is not necessary you should know them. 
But to go on; for the half-hour bell is about 
to ring, and I must then hurry to ladle out 
my soup. 

‘ ‘ Somehow or other we — Bridget and I 
— got her in. We took her to the wash- 
house, and you should have seen — no, no! 


20 CHRONICLES OP “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

God forbid that you should ever witness 
what we saw! It is enough to say that 
we were obliged to burn every rag of cloth- 
ing on her body, even the cloak in which 
we had wrapped her; to cut her matted 
hair close to her head, and to soak her 
in warm water before we could cleanse 
her from the dirt that encrusted her. 
There were sores, too, all over her, which 
made it extremely painful to the poor old 
creature; but she was so glad to be clean 
again that she scarcely minded the pain. 
She fairly revelled in the several baths in 
which we placed her. She is beyond 
comparison the most exquisitely clean old 
person we have ever had in the hpuse. 
Fancy what those seven years must have 
been to her! ” 

‘ ‘ A w^oman of extraordinary physical and 
mental strength as well,” I said, ‘‘to have 
survived such a martyrdom.” 

“Yes, indeed. Well, we soon learned 
her story. It was as the priest had said. 
She felt deeply the marriage of her son, 
and his wife, who knew this, gave him no 
peace night or day. Once the old woman 
overheard her telling him to kill the ‘old 
Dutch thing. One blow on the head would 


A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 2l 

do it.’ She had resolved to go away after 
this, but woke next morning to find her- 
self in the cellar. She had probably been 
drugged in her sleep and carried there. 
From what I can gather I believe she was 
cognizant of some dark deeds of his, or 
theirs perhaps; and while he feared to kill 
her outright, he thought it safer to put her 
where she could not talk, as she might 
have done in any institution. But he 
should have known her better. She hardly 
blames him. It was the fault of his wife, 
she says. Apart from a little wildness, he 
had been a good son to her always — until 
his marriage. Now you know why the 
poor old creature is constantly sitting in 
the sunshine : she cannot get enough 
of it. 

“Once I said to her: ‘Frau Weisman, 
what did you do all the time you were in 
that dreadful place?’ — ‘I prayed,’ she 
replied, almost fiercely; ^ I prayed^ I prayed, 
I prayed!' It was her only resource and 
her salvation.’’ 

‘ ‘ And she does not blame her inhuman 
son?” I asked. 

“She will not speak of him. I think she 
tries to divert her thoughts from the mem- 


22 CHEONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


ory of his atrocious conduct. Of course 
we respect her silence, and never mention 
the past.’* 

The bell rang, and Sister Emilia hurried 
away to feed her “children,” as the nuns 
call their charges. As I passed the chapel, 
the poor old woman was just leaving the 
sunny steps to go to the dining-room. 
She smiled pleasantly but sadly, responding 
to my salute. Delicately- featured, gentle, 
sweet-looking, she was a mother of whom 
any man might have been proud. Ah, 
Eife, I thought, what horrors you conceal! 

I soon became familiar with Frau Weis- 
man, and we spent many quiet half-hours 
together in the sunny yard. I did all the 
talking that was done: she had little to say. 
Once, as I passed her favorite seat on the 
chapel steps, accompanied by one of my 
children — a little boy, — she bent forward 
and kissed the child’s hand; tears, reminis- 
cent I knew they were, gathering in her 
soft brown eyes. 

Returning in the autumn days from a 
summer by the sea, I missed and inquired 
for her. 

“ She has gone,” said Sister Emilia. 

‘ ‘ Gone where ? ” I asked, surprised. 


A EOMANCE OF REAL LIFE. 


23 


‘ ‘ To heaven as surely as mortal ever 
went there,” she replied. 

” And her son — did you let him know?” 
‘‘Oh, no! She did not name or ask for 
him. She passed away without pain or 
illness; she was only tired, tired and sleepy. 
After the priest had left her for the last 
time I said: ‘ You bear no ill-will to any 
one, Frau Weisman?’ She looked at me 
long and earnestly; and yet the look was 
introspective, as though searching her own 
soul. Reaching for my hand at last, she 
pressed it hard, almost to painfulness. 
‘No,’ she said; ‘I forgive all — every one. 
It was the woman’s fault, and she knew 
nothing of God. She had led a sinful life, 
no one had ever taught her better. Ah, 
yes, I forgive all — every one! ’ 

‘ ‘ I think these were her last connected 
words. After her death our good Mother 
thought it might be well for me to write 
to the son. She had never seen him, you 
know. I endeavored to dissuade her, — I 
had seen him. Nevertheless, I wrote. 
This was his answer: 

‘‘‘Did I send the old woman to you? 
Did I ask you to come for her ? Now that 
she is dead you write, thinking no doubt 


24 CHEONICLES OF ‘‘ THE LITTLE SISTERS.’’ 

I will send you money. Not one cent.* 

“And where does this monster live?” 
I asked, filled with indignation. 

“Not fifty miles from here,” was the 
reply. “ No doubt you have heard of him. 
I have seen and known of many unnatural 
children in my time, but never of one so 
hardened and ungrateful. He still lives, 
but death will come, and then — ah, let us 
pray for him, my dear! That will be best.” 

There is a little sequel to my narrative. 
Some years later the Sisters received from 
the town above mentioned a package 
containing ten one-hundred dollar bills. 
Within the envelope was a slip of paper 
with the words: “Pray for a dying sinner.” 

The next week the newspapers an- 
nounced the death of the son of our poor 
old Frau Weisman, who was buried with 
the highest Masonic honors. This fact 
convinced them of what they had suspected: 
that the money came from the ungrateful 
son, stricken with remorse in what must 
have been his terrible dying hours. 


II. 

GRANDMOTHER O’HADDORAN’S STORY. 

For some time I had been attracted by a 
new face — the sweet, grave face of an old 
woman, framed in a carefully “goffered” 
cap of dazzling whiteness, such as we some- 
times see in pictures of the Irish peasantry. 
Unlike most of her companions — who, 
strange to say, wear, as a rule, in summer 
and winter, hoods and blanket shawls, 
indoors as well as out, — she wore a shoulder 
shawl of fine material in a gray and white 
pattern. This, as well as the blue gingham 
apron which covered her faded black gown, 
was always spotlessly clean. The some- 
what stern expression of her serious face, 
seamed with many wrinkles, was altogether 
redeemed by the bright smile which occa- 
sionally parted her lips at some witty sally 
of one of her more humorous companions. 
At such times I noticed the remarkable 
evenness and whiteness of her teeth (she 
appeared to be sixty-five or thereabouts) ; 

25 


26 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


and when she smiled, a dimple actually 
came to life and light in her withered old 
cheek. Always sitting a little apart from 
the various groups in the work-room or 
garden, her demeanor was characterized by 
a dignity and gentleness which, in spite of 
her aloofness, commanded the respect of 
her companions, not always granted to 
those who, from natural reserve or some 
other cause, prefer solitude to society. 

One day — I had never got beyond a 
slight salutation with her — I remarked to 
the Sister in charge: 

“It seems rather dijBScult to get ac- 
quainted with yonder old lady, and yet 
there is something so attractive and whole- 
some about her that I would be glad to 
break the ice of her reserve. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She does not care to answer idly curious 
questions,” was the reply; “being different 
in that respect from many old women. But 
she has a fine character, and has suffered 
much. Her confidence must be won 
gradually. Come, we will go to her.” 

Crossing the yard to where she sat knit- 
ting in the doorway of a little summer- 
house, the Sister said : 

“Grandmother, this is a lady who is 


GRANDMOTHER O’HALLORAN’S STORY. 


27 


much interested in you, but finds it hard to 
become better acquainted. She is a good 
friend of ours, and I will leave her with 
you now to be entertained while I go to 
the laundry.” 

She arose, bowed gravely as one know- 
ing the requirements of courtesy; then, 
smiling sweetly, made room on the bench 
beside her, as she answered : 

“Never fear. Sister: I’ll strive to help 
her pass the time while you’re gone. Will 
you sit down, my dear?” 

Sister Gertrude hurried off, and I seated 
myself at the bidding of my new friend. 

‘ ‘ What is your name, grandmother ? ” I 
asked. “ I think I would rather call you 
by it, if you do not mind.” 

She lifted her eyes from her knitting 
with one of those pleasing smiles. “’Tis 
long since I heard it,” she said. “They all 
call me ‘grandmother,’ and I’m used to it 
by this. My name is O’Halloran — Mary 
O’Halloran.” 

“A good name that,” I said. 

“You’re not far astray, dear,” she re- 
plied. “ All that I knew of them were a 
good stock — man, woman, and child. You 
are not Irish yourself? ’ ’ 


28 CHRONICLES OF ‘‘THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


“By descent, yes,” I answered. “But 
I have never seen Ireland. I hope I may 
some day.” 

“I’d give the sight of my eyes for one 
look of the green hills, though it’s thirty 
years since I sailed away from them,” 
she exclaimed passionately, clasping her 
withered hands together. 

The tears came to my eyes. Alas, poor 
wanderer! I thought. You are the type 
and embodiment of hundreds of years of 
exile and persecution, with soul still pure, 
and faithful heart still on fire with the 
memory of your native land. 

Noticing my emotion, she placed her 
hand in mine. “ It’s a kind heart ye have 
with ye,” she said; and the compact of our 
friendship was sealed from that hour. So 
it came to pass that on the rare occasions 
when the old woman availed herself of 
permission to go out, she sometimes spent 
the day with me; it happened once on St. 
Patrick’s Day, and her old heart was full 
of memories, when she told me her pathetic 
story. 

“I’m from Teitrim, joinin’ Roscommon,” 
she said ; ‘ ‘ the youngest and the only girl 
in a family of fourteen. Thirteen brothers 


GRANDMOTHER o’hALLORAN’S STORY. 


29 


I had, and my father was well to do, as 
things were in those days. ’Twas spoiled 
and humored I was from the day I was 
born. Never a foot would I go to school, 
and I wasn’t made do it. The boys 
wouldn’t let my father or mother lay a 
hand on me. Sure I was the greatest 
tomboy of them all. I could climb a stone 
wall like a cat, and the hedges and 
ditches were nothin’ at all to me. Two 
of my brothers were stonemasons, and 
they went to England ; for the times 
were better there than at home. Four 
of them were settled on farms and mar- 
ried; three came to America in the bad 
year, and three went for sailors. The one 
next to me had a great fancy for bein’ a 
priest — in those days there were ‘poor 
scholars,’ as they called them, — but he 
died before he could make a trial of it. God 
rest his soul ! He was a good and a purty 
boy. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How long ago was that ? ” I asked. 

“Faith, I can’t tell ye,’’ she replied. “ I 
was sixteen when I married, forty years I 
lived with my husband, twenty years next 
Michaelmas he’s dead.” 

‘ ‘ Then you are seventy-six ? ’ ’ 


30 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


“About that, my dear. It’s a long life 
to look back on. Well, I had no thought 
of marriage, no more than that baby of 
yours, when my father came to me one 
day, and said he : ‘ Mary, put on ye as if 
you were goin’ to Mass. Pat O’Halloran 
from the next townland, — ye mind him, 
don’t ye? He was at Barney’s funeral. 
Well, he’s lookin’ for a dacent girl for a 
wife, and I’m thinkin’ you’ll suit him.’ I 
did as he bade me, — that’s the way mar- 
riages were made in those days in Ireland, 
however they do it now. And I’m 
thinkin’, by some of the specimens I see, 
it would be better if they’d make them the 
same way still.’’ 

“And you did not know the man?” 
“Never laid eyes on him but once 
before, and never spoke a word to him till 
that evenin’.” 

‘ ‘ And you married him ? ’ ’ 

“To be sure, after they settled about 
the fortune and called the bans. ’ ’ 

“Was he young, like yourself?” 

The old woman laughed. “Tike my- 
self, alannaf No, not at all. What call 
would a boy of sixteen have to be married ? 
He was thirty years old, and a fine figure 


GRANDMOTHER o’HALLORAN’s STORY. 


31 


of a man, strong as an ox, and handsome, 
with hair like the crow’s wing. Some 
called him wilful and wild, but he was a 
good husband to me. We had ten acres 
of land, two cows, and a lot of pigs and 
chickens; a fine stone house of three 
rooms, and a barn nearly as good.” 

‘ ‘ And you were happy? ’ ’ 

Indeed I was. Marriage sobered me 
at once; for the children came fast, and I 
had plenty to do. Seven boys of them in 
ten years, and then a fine, hearty girl. 
Maggie we called her, after his mother. 
Her father idolized her, and the brothers 
were the same way with her as mine with 
me. My poor father and mother died in 
the same year, when Maggie was five years 
old. That was our first trouble, and it 
was a good while before we had another. ’ ’ 
She paused, musingly, her knitting 
dropped as she gazed into the fire. 

” Often, when I do be sittin’ alone in 
the evenings — not so much now as when 
I had my own little room with the open 
fire, — I look and search the coals for a 
picture I always find there,” 

“What is it, grandmother?” 

“A big fireplace, with the peat piled 


32 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.'* 

high at the side, and a couple of good sods 
burnin’; the big pot over the coals, and 
the potatoes bubblin’ and boilin’ inside; the 
little ones playin’ about the floor; and 
Maggie tuggin’ at my skirts, bawlin’ for 
supper. Then I’d put the big noggin of 
fresh buttermilk on the deal table, as white 
as snow. The noggin itself was brass- 
bound and shinin’ as soap and stone could 
make it. So were the small drinkin’ nog- 
gins. I kept my little place clean and tidy. 
Soon the boys would come troopin’ in, 
their father after them. I’d rise and take 
up the potatoes — that big platter above is 
about the size of the one they were piled 
on, their sides burstin’. Dear, there was 
never a meal so sweet as potatoes and 
buttermilk. ’ ’ 

Drawing herself together, as it were, 
with a short, sharp sigh, she said, quickly: 
“Ah, I mustn’t think of those days now! 
They’re too far away.” Wiping her eyes 
she continued: 

“When Maggie was ten the crops failed, 
and the next year, and the next. Three 
of the boys came to America, and two went 
to Australia; two enlisted, and we had 
only the little girL The boys in Australia 


GRANDMOTHER O’hALLORAN’s STORY. 


33 


were young. I’m afraid they got wild; 
for we heard from them but seldom, and 
they never sent home but a trifle. It 
wasn’t long till they stopped writin’ alto- 
gether, and from that day to this we never 
heard tale nor tidings of them. Two of 
the boys in America married, and that 
stopped them from sendin’ much home. 
And the old man got a hurt that withered 
his right hand, so he made but poor shift 
.with the farm. Times went from bad to 
worse. The fever came, and all my broth- 
rs died of it. Their families were mostly 
as bad off as ourselves. 

“At long last we could see no help for 
it, but Maggie must go to America too. 
The boy that was unmarried kept writin’ 
for her, and wanted us all to come. But 
Maggie was such a kind, tender-hearted 
creature that she offered to go first, and 
make some kind of a way for us to get on. 
It was a sore thing for us to let her go: 
her father was never the better of it. She 
got a good place at once, and kept it a 
long time. All she could spare she sent us. 
The two married boys were livin’ on a 
small place near the town, keepin’ a dairy. 
But their two wives were always quarrelin’ , 


34 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


and the men took to drinkin’ on account 
of it. Maggie wrote that they seemed to 
have lost all nature for her; and the women 
wouldn’t treat her well at all. So she 
seldom went next or near them. 

‘ ‘ Dennis, the single boy, had strained 
his back liftin’ a heavy barrel, and was 
most of the time in hospital. That was the 
cause of his not sendin’ more money, but 
he didn’t like to fret us by tellin’ it. 
Every cent Maggie could spare she gave 
us, but the brother took the most of it; he 
could work only a spell at a time. ’Twas 
worse and worse things got every day, till 
it looked at last as if there was nothin’ for 
us but the poorhouse. The parish priest 
wrote to the married boys; and, unbe- 
knownest to their wives, they sent half 
our passage money ; Maggie gave the 
rest. 

“The very day we landed in C 

the two boys were killed by a tree failin’ on 
them — that was our welcome to America. 
I never saw either of their wives or one of 
the children since the day of the funeral. 
Maggie had a couple of nice rooms ready 
for us, but we found Dennis on the broad 
of his back in one of them. Poor boy! 


GRANDMOTHER o’HALLORAN’S STORY. 


35 


he’d have been a good son, but sure he 
wasn’t able.” 

“You must have been sorely discour- 
aged,” I said, looking down at the knotted, 
toil-worn hands lying at rest in her lap — 
the knitting had fallen on the floor. 

‘ ‘ I was, alanna; but the prayer my 
mother taught me was ever on my lips: 

‘ God’s holy will be done. ’ ” 

‘ ‘ And you did not murmur ? ’ ’ 

“Father in heaven, when I go before 
Your mighty throne I hope I can say 
No!” she exclaimed, reverently clasping 
her hands, and raising her eyes to a picture 
of the Sacred Heart which hung above 
the mantel. Moistening her dry lips with 
a taste of water, she continued: 

“The worst was to come, dear; the 
worst was to come. The old man sickened 
too, in the hot air of the town; he had been 
so used to the hills and the fresh breath of 
heaven. I got a bit of washin’ to do in 
the house where Maggie lived, and the 
lady was very kind. We were in it but 
six weeks when the cholera broke out 
dreadfully. Maggie came home to us one 
night, white as a ghost. When she fell 
on the floor in a heap I knew it was the 


36 CHRONICLES OF ‘^THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


cholera. The old man ran for the doctor. 
He came at once, and told us send for the 
priest, for she wouldn’t be alive in the 
mornin’. Her father threw up his hands 
at that, and ran like a crazy man into the 
next room. I ran for the priest. The 
Jesuits were on the next block, and I had 
been with her to see Father Kenny, her 
confessor, the Sunday before. He was 
with me in a flash. We worked hard to 
keep her — the Father, the doctor and 
myself — until midnight. All the neighbors 
but one woman were afraid to come in. It 
was the first case in the buildin’. After 
she went there was many a one carried out 
feet foremost. Her own father wouldn’t 
come near her. She died just as the bells 
were ringin’ for five o’clock Mass; and 
Father Kenny — God bless him! — went 
back to say it for her; though he told me 
he knew she didn’t need it, she was such 
a good child, and a member of the Sodality. 
He said she’d worked too hard, and had no 
strength when the disease took hold of her. ” 
Clasping her hands nervously in front 
of her, the poor creature began to rock to 
and fro, her lips twitching, tears falling 
on the wrinkled fingers. 


GRANDMOTHER o’HALLORAN’s STORY. 


37 


“Do not tell me any more, Mrs. 
O’Halloran,” I said, putting my arm 
around the poor bent shoulders. ‘ ‘ It must 
distress you so.” 

“No, darlin’, it doesn’t,” she answered, 
stifling a sob. ‘ ‘ My old heart is cold, 
cold, and it does me good to talk. Ah! it’s 
many a day since I opened it before. 

“Well, the world isn’t so bad, after all. 
Dennis lay in the room beyant, strivin’ to 
comfort his father; the poor boy couldn’t 
do a hand’s turn besides. I went my lone 
to the undertaker; and he treated me well, 
tellin’ me not to be uneasy about the money. 
’Twas a great drunkard he was, and he 
died of the cholera before the summer was 
over; but God remembered that for him 
when he was goin’. 

“ ’Twas the hottest day I ever felt when 
we buried my girl. The old man was 
shakin’ and tremblin’ so that I couldn’t 
hold him up. And when the first sod fell 
on her, he gave a loud cry and his heart 
broke. Yes, dear, it did — he took to his 
bed when we went back, and was buried 
that day fortnight. 

“Dennis was somethin’ better when the 
father died,” continued grandmother; 


38 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’ 


“and by dint of drivin’ carriages for the 
undertaker — for men were scarce — we soon 
had the most of the bill paid. There was 
a trifle cornin’ to Maggie besides, and 
her former mistress was very good ,to me. 
She got me washin’ here and there; and, 
though strange to the country’s ways, I 
was a fine hand at the washin’ and ironin’.’’ 

“It was your beautifully laundered cap 
that first made me notice you,’’ I said, 
touching the fluted ruffle as I spoke. 

‘ ‘ I brought the goffer-irons from Ireland 
with me that did this very cap,’’ she 
answered, with a smile; “and through 
thick and thin I’ve always managed to 
have a clean one. From this one I got a 
present of a bit of linen, and from that one 
a scrap of lawn, so I’m never without a 
good half dozen of them. 

“It was terrible that summer. Hun- 
dreds of people died with the cholera. The 
neighbors soon found that I wasn’t afraid 
of it, and it was Mrs. O’Halloran here, there, 
and everywhere. Many’s the night, after 
a day’s hard work, I sat rubbin’, rubbin’, 
and puttin’ on mustard plasters. Many’s 
the corpse I laid out for the grave. The 
priests were all in it. When father and 


GRANDMOTHER o’hALLORAN’s STORY. 


39 


mother deserted their children, the priest 
of God was still to the fore. 

“About the beginnin’ of fall, when it 
was growin’ cooler, and the sickness not 
quite so bad, Mr. Heany, the undertaker, 
was stricken. His wife ran screamin’ 
home to her mother, and there was no one 
to tend him but his son by the first wife. 
I went over when I heard it. Father 
Kenny was there before me. I never saw 
one suffer like Mr. Heany. He was a 
giant ye might say, tall and broad; after 
he’d been sick three hours you could lay 
the skin in folds on any part of his body, 
he was so wasted. He died holdin’ my 
hand, and made the son promise he’d 
forgive us the rest of the debt. 

“By this time the neighbors had come 
to know me well. They were very good 
and kind, and often sent in the children 
with a pail of water or a handful of kin- 
dlin’, to save my feet; for Dennis was soon 
on his back again, and I had all I could 
do to keep our bodies and souls together. 

‘ ‘ It was only in the long winter even- 
ings, over my knittin’ , I began to feel all 
that had happened me. The shock was so 
dreadful that it numbed me like; and the 


40 CHRONICLES OF “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

summer so full of sickness and death, I 
had not time to think. But I thanked God 
that my two boys had made their Easter 
duty a few days before they were killed; 
that I had seen Maggie once more; and 
that her father was buried beside her, 
where he could rest easy. And when I’d 
be lookin’ at poor Dennis, lyin’ pale and 
weak on the bed forninst me, I’d be sayin’ 
another prayer of thankfulness that he 
wasn’t carousin’ and drinkin’, like so many 
more in the parish. But sometimes I’d 
feel very lonely, and my heart would 
tighten within me till I’d think it burstin’. 
I never found a cure for that, dear, but 
to put on my hood and mantle and run 
round to St. Ignatius’, to the foot of our 
Blessed Eady’s altar. I could see the spire 
of the church — yes, the back of the high 
altar — from my kitchen window; and when 
the Angelus rang, it seemed at the very 
doorstep. 

“We held our own through the winter; 
and Dennis was feelin’ so much better he 
thought he’d look around for a job. He 
came in one mornin’ about nine — he’d been 
out since seven, — and said: ‘Mother, they’re 
beginnin’ to tear down a part of the old 


GRANDMOTHER o’hALLORAN’S STORY. 41 


church today, to make way for the new. 
I’m thinkin’, as I’ve nothin’ to do, I’ll 
lend them a hand by way of kindness, for 
today anyway. Father Kenny and all the 
Fathers have been so good it’s the least 
I might do, though I’m not strong enough 
to keep at it long.’ — ‘Do, child,’ says I, 
nothin’ loath, and pleased at the good heart 
of the boy. So he went from me, the last 
that was left; and they brought him back 
to me in an hour’s time, killed by a falling 
wall, so crushed and broken that they 
wouldn’t let me look at him. But I’ll 
always see him as he looked back at me 
that March mornin’ leavin’ the threshold, 
— my poor, pale-faced boy! ” 

“Oh, don’t tell anymore!’’ I said, my 
face wet with tears. “ It is too terrible for 
you.’’ 

“There’s not much more to tell, asthore. 
That was the end of livin’ and lovin’ for me 
in this world. I worked on and on. Sure 
my boy was a martyr, and the heavens 
opened for him that day; that comforted 
me. The Fathers were good to me, and 
paid my rent. I toiled on and on, till the 
rheumatism got hold of me; and I wasn’t 
much good after that. When I couldn’t 


42 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


do the heavy washings any longer, I 
cleaned offices now and then; and knitted 
socks for the laborin’ men. I had a little 
peanut stand on the corner for a while, 
but it didn’t prosper with me; the neigh- 
bors told me I gave the children too much 
for a penny. Once I hired out as a nurse 
to a baby for a dollar a week and my meals, 
goin’ home to my own little room at night. 
I liked that well till the lady got drunk 
one day, and beat me with a poker because 
I wouldn’t give the baby a sup of beer.” 

‘‘It was well for you, grandmother,” 
I said, ‘‘that you did not contract the 
habit of drinking to drown your troubles. 
Many a poor soul has been wrecked by it. ” 

‘‘A drop of liquor was never drunk in 
my father’s house nor in mine,” she 
replied. ‘‘I hate the smell and I don’t 
know the taste of it. I saw enough of it 
among the poor creatures in the court 
where I lived so long — twenty years. It 
was a purgatory for me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How long have you been with the 
lyittle Sisters?” I asked, as she relapsed 
into silence. 

‘‘Two years, alanna , — two years this 
cornin’ Good- Friday. ” 


GRANDMOTHER O’hALLORAN’S STORY. 


43 


“And you are happy here? “ 

‘ ‘ How could I help it ? It was hard 
to give up my little place; but I was 
growin’ a burthen to the neighbors, and 
I knew it was best. Some of these old 
women are very gabby, and I do be tired 
listenin’ to them; so I keep to myself all 
I can, without wantin’ to seem cross or 
cranky. That’s only on weekdays; Sun- 
days I try to be merry with the best of 
them.” 

“And you are happy at last, in the 
evening of your days ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, dear, very happy. I have all I 
want to eat and drink, and never an ache 
or a pain. OurTord is there in the chapel, 
and I can go to Him whenever I please. 
Mass every mornin’ and Holy Communion 
once a week, — what would I ask more? ” 
Again she was silent. But I caught a 
rapid, yearning look, with which she 
seemed to search my countenance; and 
felt there was something she wished, yet 
hesitated, to say. 

‘ ‘ What is it, grandmother ? ” I inquired. 
She murmured a few words under her 
breath, then shook her head. “No,” she 
said, “not yet. It’s a little matter I’m not 


44 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’* 


certain about, between me and my con- 
science. No sin, I can say truly; but some 
one ought to know it, and I’d like to tell 
you of it, — I think I might.” She rose 
to her feet, and added quickly. “No, no, 
not today. I’ll sleep on it anyway, and 
maybe the next time you come I’ll take 
coun.sel wdth you. But the evenin’ is 
darkenin’, and I must be away before the 
gate is shut. Thank you, dear, for the 
happiest St. Patrick’s Day I’ve spent in 
America. ’ ’ 

So saying she hurried away. 

The next time I went to the Little Sis- 
ters, they told me Grandmother O’Halloran 
was ill, had been in bed some days. I 
asked permission to visit her, and was 
ushered into the infirmary. She was very 
glad to see me, and said she had been 
thinking of asking the Sisters to send for 
me; as she had a little errand which no one 
else could do, and also something to tell 
me. Having expressed my willingness to 
do all in my power, she beckoned me 
nearer, and said, in a low voice: 

“They tell me it’s nothin’, alanna, but 
I’m goin’ to die. I’m wastin’ away, that 
is all: there’s no sickness upon me. But 


GRANDMOTHER o’hALLORAN’s STORY. 


45 


there’s somethin’ on my mind, as I told 
you before.” 

‘ ‘ If you will tell me what it is, perhaps 
I may be of service,” I replied. 

“ When I came here,” she said, “I had 
twenty-five dollars in my pocket. Fifteen 
of that I gave to the Sisters, and hid the 
other ten in a little bag in the ball of my 
hair. Not a soul knew it. It has bothered 
me a good deal lately; for I didn’t feel it 
was just right to keep it from them that 
had been so good to me. But I wanted it 
partly for a habit — a habit of the Scapular, 
— and partly because I didn’t know but 
sometime I might have to leave this, and 
then I’d be without a penny. I have often 
had a quarter or half a dollar from visitors, 
but I’ve given every cent of that to the 
Sisters. Only one day last winter a lady 
came here; she was wealthy, for she gave 
the old women new hoods and blankets, 
and the Sisters a hundred dollars. And 
she slipped a five-dollar bill into my hand 
at the chapel door. ‘ Pray for me, mother,’ 
she said, in a whisper. ‘ And keep this for 
yourself, — for yourself, mind!' I took it 
and put it with the rest. Now, lyin’ here 
these few last days I’ve been takin’ great 


46 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

shame to myself for it all; and I’m longin’ 
to give up the money, only there’s two 
things holdin’ me back. They promised 
to bury me beside Pat, close to Maggie and 
Dennis; but I want a habit, my dear, and 
five Masses to be said for my soul. So I’m^ 
/oath to give up the money.” 

She looked at me wistfully, as though 
she would read my thoughts. 

“Give it to the Sisters, grandmother,” 
I said. ” They have been so kind to you, 
and have so trusted you, that they would 
feel it deeply, I am sure, if they thought 
you had secreted it. For my part, I 
promise to get you the habit at once, so that 
you may see it; and the Masses will be said. ’ ’ 

“Oh, thajak you, thank you, darlin’!” 
she answered, seizing my hand and clasping 
it warmly between hers. 

I sat down beside her. She took off her 
cap, and from the still abundant coil of her 
snowy hair drew a tiny linen bag. Unty- 
ing the string, she laid the contents in my 
hand. I counted fifteen dollars. 

“I’m greatly better in my mind now, 
darlin’,” she said, tying her cap strings 
once more; “but my body’s very, very 
weak. I’ll not be long here.” 


GRANDMOTHER o’hALLORAN’s STORY. 


47 


I endeavored to make her believe she 
would soon be well again; but she clung 
to the idea of death, and bade me hasten 
with the habit. 

On the next day but one I brought it, 
and the fashion pleased her well. It was 
made of soft brown cashmere, and the 
Sister told me she had taken a bath that 
morning and changed all her underclothing 
for a fine, lace- trimmed set some lady had 
given her years ago, and which she had 
never worn, preferring to save it for her 
burial. She desired us to put it on her at 
once, for she was feeling very weak. After 
this she seemed satisfied, and lay quietly 
with her beads on the coverlid near her. 
When the Sister had gone away she 
whispered, her voice grown very weak: 

‘ ‘ I gave the money to the good Mother, 
and told her all about it, asking her pardon. 
She wasn’t a bit vexed with me, but went 
and got a big orange and made me eat it. 
Father Bryam gave me the last Sacraments 
this mornin’; he’s away in the country 
for the balance of the week, and I’ll not be 
here when he comes again. And, O darlin’ , 
I’ll never forget you or yours where I’m 
goin’ !” 


48 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

I left her soon after, promising to return 
on the morrow. When I reached the 
Home next day she had been dead 
some hours, and lay with a touch of the 
beauty of her youth upon her peaceful 
face. We buried her in the quiet spot 
where she had wished to lie, ‘ ‘ beside Pat, 
close to Dennis and Maggie,” — the rest of 
her loved ones, or mayhap their graves, 
scattered hither and thither through the 
world. 



III. 


i^izzie's father. 

He was one of five old blind men at 
the Little Sisters, and by far the most 
interesting of the company. His face 
always reminded me of the pictures of the 
Cure of Ars: it had the same outlines, and 
must always have been spiritual-looking. 
Indeed, he confided to me that from his 
boyhood he had wished to become a relig- 
ious; but, having been the only son in a 
large family, he felt it his duty to remain 
with his old father and mother, and take 
the burthen of the farm off their shoulders. 
This had been in Ireland, many years ago, 
where he had subsequently married, emi- 
grating to this country after the death 
of his parents. His wife had died early, 
leaving him the poor man’s heritage — a 
family of daughters. 

He was refined and intelligent, and had 
kept his girls at school as long as he 
could, hoping to fit them for some position 


60 CHEOIflCLEa OP “the little bistebs.” 

above that of service. But as each grew 
to womanhood, ill health set in; and they 
faded away one by one, till I^izzie, the 
youngest and apparently the most frail, 
was the only one left. Up to this time he 
had occupied the position of watchman in 
a large manufactory, and had managed to 
live comfortably. But sickness and the 
consequent draw on his purse had taken 
all his small savings; and the death of his 
second last daughter found him not only 
almost penniless, but threatened with 
blindness. 

Ivizzie was at this time hardly twenty- 
five years of age, a frail, sweet-faced girl, 
unable, one would think, to battle with 
the world. She was engaged to a young 
man having a good clerkship in the house 
where her father was employed. The old 
man was fond of him, and treated him in 
all things as a son. 

“Indeed,” he said, in his own calm yet 
pathetic way, ‘ ‘ it would not have hurt me 
worse had my own son proved ungrateful. 
It all came at once. Mr. Watson, my 
employer, informed me one Saturday even- 
ing that the firm had resolved to hire 
another man in my place. He was sorry. 


lizzie’s fathee. 


51 


but my increasing blindness rendered it 
impossible for me to remain in such a 
responsible position. And I agreed with 
him, though it was a hard blow. He was 
very kind, giving me five hundred dollars, 
and telling me never to allow myself to 
want while he lived. I learned afterward 
that the physicians had told him my loss 
of sight was the result of an organic dis- 
ease, which might take me off at any 
moment. That was ten years ago, and — 
thanks be to God! — I am still living at 
seventy-five. So much for the doctors. 

‘ ‘ Lizzie took it all cheerfully, saying 
that she had long wished for a change of 
some kind for me; and bade me not worry, 
for she and John would take care of me. 

“He came the next evening; and as 
their marriage day was near at hand, and 
I never liked to be a spy or a damper on 
the young folks, I went into the adjoining 
room after a few words, and sat down to 
my paper. I’ll pledge you my word, ma’am, 
I didn’t know I had left the door on the 
crack till I heard him begin to talk; but 
I’ll not deny that when I learned the tone 
the young man was taking I made no 
haste to shut it. 


52 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


* “Lizzie,’ he began, ‘this is very sad 
about your father; just as we were about 
to be married, too.’ 

“‘Yes,’ said Lizzie, ‘it is. But the 
worst part is that he is threatened with 
blindness; it will be so hard for my poor 
father! But the firm have made him a 
present of five hundred dollars, which was 
certainly very kind. ’ 

“‘What is five hundred dollars!’ he 
answered. ‘ You can’t get more than thirty 
dollars at interest, and that would hardly 
keep him in tobacco.’ 

“‘True,’ said Lizzie. ‘But it will be 
a little nest-egg for him, and he will not 
feel so dependent on us.’ 

“He said nothing for a minute, but 
hemmed and hawed till I think he must 
have been red in the face. At last he 
succeeded in bringing it out. 

“‘I’ve been thinking for some time, 
Lizzie,’ he resumed, ‘especially since this 
blindness has been coming on the old man, 
that we ought to come to some under- 
standing about him.’ 

“‘What do you mean, John?’ asked 
Lizzie, turning on him sharply, I knew 
by the tone of her voice. 


lizzie’s father. 


53 


“‘Why, don’t you think we ought to 
try and persuade him to go to the lyittle 
Sisters? An old man like that gets to be 
a great burden after a while, and — ’ 

“ ‘There is the door, sir!’ said Tizzie — 
I could hear her get up from the chair and 
stand on the floor. ‘ There is the door, 
sir, I repeat! Open it, if you please; shut 
it after you, and never enter it again!’ 

“‘But, lyizzie,’ he answered — he was 
very much astonished, I’ll be bound, — 
‘ be reasonable. ’ 

“‘Go!’ was all she said. And he went. 

“She lingered a while in the room after 
he had gone, then I heard her blow out 
the lamp and come in where I was. She 
stood beside me a moment or two, and put 
her hand on my hair. 

“‘I love this dear white head,’ she 
said, ‘ and these failing eyes better than 
anything in the world.’ Then she kissed 
my hair and eyes and cheeks and lips, 
tears streaming down her face. ‘ Father — ’ 
she began; but I wanted to spare her. 

“‘My daughter,’ said I, ‘you need tell 
me nothing: I heard every word. And 
you need not grieve for such a man; for 
he could not have been a good husband.’ 


54 CHEONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTEE8.” 


“ ‘I don’t think I shall fret at all,’ she 
said. ‘ I’m too thankful to God for open- 
ing my eyes before it was too late. ’ 

‘ ‘ We said little about him from that day 
to this. He married a silly slip of a girl 
shortly after. 

“Well, it was hard times for us then. 
Lizzie tried sewing, but it made her side 
ache; fancy work paid but little, and the 
machine she could not stand. My poor 
girl even took in gentlemen’s washing to 
keep soul and body together. Little by 
little we were spending the bit of money. 
Lizzie was getting very thin and pale, and 
at last we saw there was nothing for us 
but that she should go out to service in 
some easy place. That meant here for me, 
of course. But we both were reconciled to 
it when we saw it had to be done; and she 
was fortunate in getting a place with an 
invalid lady as a sort of companion and 
waiting-maid. She has fifteen dollars a 
month, and comes to see me every Thurs- 
day. Sister Emilia will tell you she is a 
lovely child. She never comes without 
bringing fruit and tobacco, — not a taste, 
but enough to share a bit; and there’s never 
a week but she drops a silver half-dollar 


lizzie’s father. 


55 


into St. Joseph’s box in the corridor. She 
brings me handkerchiefs and stockings, 
and makes my shirts, — I have plenty of 
other clothes. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I shall be anxious to see I^izzie, after 
all I have heard of her,” I said. 

My wish was soon gratified. A fortnight 
later, as I was going into the men’s depart- 
ment, I met the blind man coming out, 
leaning on I^izzie’s arm. She had a lovely 
face; it would have been a study for a 
painter. She was speaking to her father 
in a low, sweet voice. 

“This is lyizzie I know,” I said, holding 
out my hand. Then and there we formed 
an acquaintance which only ended with 
lyizzie’ s life. 

She was indeed a model daughter: gentle, 
tender, affectionate, anticipating every wish 
and thought of her beloved father; while 
he, in turn, cherished her with an almost 
adoring fondness. He would make her 
take off her bonnet, so that he might pass 
his hands over her hair, which was beauti- 
ful and abundant. “It is as thick as 
ever,” he would say; or, touching her 
cheek, “That little dimple is still here”; 
or, “Your hands are getting softer, my 


56 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


dear. I’m so glad you do not have to 
work hard.” Sometimes she would peel a 
couple of dozen oranges or apples, and pass 
them around among the old men; or some- 
times it would be tobacco, in small squares 
for chewing, as they liked it best. It was 
a delight to watch her on Thursday after- 
noons, and I often availed myself of it. 

One evening we were walking home 
together, her way lying not far from mine, 
when lyizzie told me that she had been 
troubled for some time with a slight but 
disagreeable cough, and that the doctor 
had told her she must be very careful of 
her lungs. 

“For myself I do not care,” she added: 
“I should have no regrets. But I cannot 
bear to think of dying and leaving my 
poor father behind. It would break his 
dear old heart. And again I feel as though 
I could not live if he were gone. ’ ’ 

“You must take great precaution against 
colds,” I said. “You are not strong, but 
with due care you will live a long while 
yet. And your father is not very feeble. 
You have been so good a daughter, and 
have so trusted in God that He will not 
desert you at the end.” 


lizzie’s father. 


57 


She smiled and shook my hand at part- 
ing, neither of us thinking that we should 
meet no more on earth. 

The weather changed next day. On 
Sunday, Tizzie went to Mass in a storm of 
snow and sleet; that night she was taken 
with pneumonia. The next morning her 
mistress had her sent to the hospital; she 
took cold in transit, and by Tuesday was 
delirious. Wednesday her senses returned; 
she sent for Sister Emilia, but did not 
know her when she arrived. She died on 
Thursday morning. 

“Ah! come home with me,” said Sister 
Emilia, on her way from the death-bed; 
“ and say something to that poor old man, 
— I cannot.” 

I accompanied her on the sad errand. 

“Where is Mr. Sullivan, Michael?” 
asked Sister Emilia, as we entered the 
smoking-room. 

“Sure he was dhroopin’. Sister dear, and 
went to lie down a while ago. His girl 
didn’t come the day, and he was a bit 
low-spirited.” 

We went to the infirmary. I know not 
what instinct told me the old man’s hour 
had come, but I felt it as soon as I looked 


68 CHEONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.'* 

at him. A great change had taken place 
since the week before. 

“Well, what’s this?” said the Sister, 
in her cheery way. “You were as lively 
as a cricket when I went out this morning, 
and now you’re in the dumps. What is it ? 
— a headache? ” 

“No, Sister,” he replied, more slowly 
than was his wont; “only a kind of weak- 
ness. I haven’t been well since Sunday; 
but I said nothing, not wishing to give 
trouble. And I have missed my girl a bit 
this afternoon. ’Tis the first time she 
failed to come.” 

The knowledge that was in me rose to 
my lips, and I said: “Tizzie was obliged 
to go away suddenly for her Master, Mr. 
Sullivan. There is no need to tell you 
she is even more sorry than yourself. But 
next Thursday she will be with you 
without fail.” 

Sister Emilia shook her head depreca- 
tingly, and opened her eyes, as if to say, 
“How dare you tell such a falsehood!” 

“Thank you, thank you, ma’am, for 
bringing me the message,” he answered. 
“From Thursday to Thursday is but a 
short time, to be sure; and how many 


lizzie’s father. 


59 


there are who have never a soul to think 
of them outside, much less come once a 
week to see them 1 I think I could sleep a 
bit, and I’m very grateful.” 

When we left the room I humbly 
accepted Sister Emilia’s admonitions on 
the sin of falsehood; but after she had 
finished, I told her of my conviction that 
the old man was stricken with death. 

“Maybe so,” she replied; “but there 
is no appearance yet — to my eyes at least. 
You will have to extricate yourself as you 
got in, if you are mistaken.” 

The next morning we saw Eizzie laid 
in the cemetery; it was Monday before I 
went again to the Tittle Sisters. 

“How is Mr. Sullivan?” I asked of one 
of his companions. 

‘ ‘Dying, they tell me, of the pneumonia. 
He hasn’t a mite of sense left in him.” 

I was not at all surprised; but went 
directly to the old women’s room, where I 
found Sister Emilia. 

“You were right,” she said: “the old 
man will never leave his bed alive. There 
will be no need to tell him of Eizzie; for 
he is lying in a stupor, out of which he 
will not be likely to pass. ’ ’ 


60 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


I never saw him again. That night, 
about twelve, two of the Tittle Sisters were 
watching at his bedside, — Sister Emilia and 
a delicate little creature, who passed most 
of her time mending the clothes, not being 
able to do hard work. The old man began 
to articulate for the first time since Friday. 
The Sisters approached his bed. 

“I am coming, Tord Jesus,” he said, 
distinctly; “but I want Eizzie. Lizzie, 
give me your hand.” 

Sister Emilia slipped her hand in his. 
He pushed it away. “That is not Lizzie’s 
hand,” he said. “Daughter, give me your 
hand.” 

Sister Emilia made a sign to the little 
nun beside her. She clasped the wasted 
fingers. 

“Ah, that’s right!” he said. “Dear, 
soft, kind little hand!” And pressing it to 
his lips, so passed away. 


IV. 

OI,D kitty’s tbgacy. 

She was one of a type fast passing away, 
since the Associated Charities have been 
the means of abolishing street-begging and 
indiscriminate almsgiving; — a ragged, re- 
pulsive-looking creature, with a shrewd 
eye, and a habitual expression of lip which 
was more leer than smile. 

She always carried a basket, kept well 
filled with dainty remnants of food by the 
kind-hearted servant-girls in the aristo- 
cratic neighborhood she honored with her 
daily visitations. It was rumored that she 
sold most of these to her fellow-lodgers in 
the miserable tenement where she slept; 
for early morning saw her abroad in all 
weathers, and she was often met on her 
way home near midnight, — always carrying 
her basket. 

Although living among the most de- 
graded class, in a disreputable portion of 

the town, she had never been accused of 
61 


62 CHRONICLES OP “tHE LITTLE SISTERS.’* 


dishonesty or immorality of any kind; did 
not drink or swear, but was very coarse 
in her habits. Her stockingless feet were 
covered with thick, well-patched brogans, 
much too large for her. Her skirts, from 
long service, were in fringes of dirty rags. 
She wore a black shawl tied about her 
waist, and a heavy plaid one over it, winter 
and summer. She went to Mass every 
morning, remaining in the back part of 
the church, and often soliciting alms from 
those who passed out. I remember one 
morning reproving her for this somewhat 
sharply, and asking her why she did not 
go to the Little Sisters. 

“Sure, you wouldn’t begrudge a poor, 
lone woman her freedom, ma’am,’’ she 
said. “What’d a rambler like me do in 
such a place? Lave me alone, and make 
your own sowl; and God grant yourself 
a dacent place for your old age.’’ 

On another occasion, meeting her on the 
street with her beads thrust ostentatiously 
before her, while she mumbled “Hail 
Marys” as she passed along, I told her 
I did not think it looked well to make such 
a public display of religion. 

“There ye are agin!” she said. “Will 


OLD kitty’s legacy. 


63 


ye never lave me alone? Them that’s 
higher and better knows how to judge us 
both. Plase to give me a dime, ma’am, 
for a taste of coal,” — which request I could 
not refuse, much as I disliked the poor 
creature’s ways. 

Since age and experience have taught 
me some wisdom, I have often thought I 
did her injustice. Not mentally bright, 
yet with some notions of piety and rever- 
ence for sacred things, she was not to be 
measured by a high standard. Two inci- 
dents favorable to her character I have 
always remembered. 

Much against the protestations of the 
pastor of the church she frequented, she 
always presented him with a gold piece at 
Christmas. He, thinking it represented 
great privation on her part, declined at first 
to receive it; but she insisted. She made 
this gift regularly for many years. 

Another good trait was evidenced by 
the fact that, though she was the recipient 
of all kinds of gossip from the people and 
places she frequented, she was never known 
to utter a syllable derogatory to another, 
had no intimates, and kept her own counsel. 
Though a daily attendant at Mass, and not 


64 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


seldom assisting at three Masses on Sun- 
days, no one ever saw her approach the 
Holy Table. She was, indeed, a typical 
character, and a bundle of eccentricities. 

One morning I was greeted by Sister 
Emilia with an anxious countenance. 

“I have been so vexed,” she said. 
‘ ‘ And those things nearly always get into 
the papers. You know the woman they 
call Old Kitty, — the one who always carries 
a basket and says her Rosary aloud on the 
streets ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I know her well. ’ * 

“Yesterday she came asking us to take 
her, as she felt her health to be failing. 
Our good Mother agreed to do so, and told 
her to come this morning. She came about 
nine o’clock; and we felt it incumbent upon 
us to make her take a bath, after which we 
intended to give her an entire change of 
clothing. (You know the necessity we 
often find for this plan.) But she would 
not agree to it; and finally, while I was 
endeavoring to remove her shawl, she 
broke away from me, rushed to a passing 
streetcar and called: ‘Help! help! They 
are trying to steal my clothes in there.’ 
One of the passengers so informed us, — 


OLD kitty’s legacy. 


65 


a middle-aged lady, who came in to make 
inquiries. 

“How unfortunate!” I replied. “Such 
a pity that the old creature should have 
<come! But I do not believe the papers 
will get hold of it. ’ ’ 

However, they did get it, and exag- 
gerated the affair so much that the Sisters 
were greatly distressed. 

After that Kitty and I gave each other 
a wide berth. She was doubtless afraid 
I might reproach her; and, on my part, I 
did not wish to interrogate her. Indeed, 
she was out of favor among many of her 
old friends through the occurrence. 

It might have been two years later, one 
day in the middle of winter, a Catholic 
physician who attended at the Little Sisters 
was summoned to the old woman. He 
found her dying on a heap of rags in her 
filthy abode. After telling her frankly 
that she had not more than twenty-four 
hours to live, he offered to send her two 
Sisters of Charity. 

“No,” she said, “I don’t want them at 
all, but the Little Sisters. I have Iwisiness 
with them. Come back yourself, and bring 
Father K ; and have the Little ^ters 


66 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

here at four. I’ve enough to pay you for 
your trouble, and I’ll not keep ye long.” 

The good man obeyed her wishes. Fa- 
ther K heard her confession; and, in 

response to a telephone message, Sister 
Emilia and a companion reached the place 
at four o’clock. The old woman greeted 
the Sisters with effusion. 

“I’m bound for death,” she said; “and 
I want to ax your pardon. Sisters, for the 
way I behaved that day long ago at the 
Home. They told me it was in all the 
newspapers, and it made a great scandal.” 
Reaching her hand under the bedclothes 
she said: “Call up the man that keeps the 
saloon downstairs, — him and his wife.” 

This was done; and when they made 
their appearance, Kitty drew forth a leather 
bag from beneath the clothes. Untying 
the string that confined it, she took out 
a five-dollar gold piece, saying, “Here’s 
to you, Tom Crane, — to you and your wife; 
you’ve always been good to me. And what 
I said about the Little Sisters was a lie.” 

She handed another to the doctor. 
“Take this for your trouble, sir. And what 
I said about the Little Sisters was a He.” 

She next drew two double eagles from 


OLD kitty’s legacy. 


67 


the bag, with these words: “I beg your 

pardon, Father K , for all the scandal 

I’ve given. Take the bit of money, give me 
a dacent funeral, and put the rest in your 
pocket. And don’t lay me in the Potter’s 
Field; for as sure as you do I’ll walk.” 

Finally she presented the bag, to Sister 
Emilia, saying, “The rest is for you, Sister, 
and the good Mother, for the Home; for 
I was very bad to you, very bad. I call 
you all to witness that I’m doin’ it of my 
own free will and intention. I never had 
husband or child. I’ve neither kith nor 
kin. I got the money honest, if some of 
it was begged; and it’s my own to do what 
I plase wid. Now be off, all of ye, and 
let me die in peace.” 

She would not permit any one to remain 
in the room, and the group dispersed; 
though the kind woman — a jet-black 
negress — who had been her friend, lingered 
within call. 

In a very little while she was dead. She 
got the “dacent funeral,” and was not laid 
in Potter’s Field, but in consecrated 
ground, in the lot of the Little Sisters. 
The bag contained $250 in gold. Peace 
to her memory I 


V. 

A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. 

In the Home of which I write there 
were many more women than men, and 
Irish was the predominating nationality. 
I do not know whether the former is the 
case everywhere, but am inclined to believe 
it is. Probably because of their more 
temperate lives, women, as a rule, after a 
certain age, live longer than men; particu- 
larly if their lot is one of privation. And 
it is a well-known fact that the Germans, 
French, Swiss, and other continental 
folk, are far more provident in general 
than those of Irish birth. Among them 
a man or woman must have led a life of 
great hardship, or dissipation and extrava- 
gance, or misfortune must have visited one 
sorely, when one has not laid by something 
for old age. Far be it from the intention 
of this chronicler to insinuate, however, 
that even the greater number of these poor 
Irish pensioners on public bounty and the 

6S 


A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. 


69 


charity of the Little Sisters are destitute 
through their own fault. And such was 
not the case with my good old friend Mrs. 
Connell, the subject of this sketch. 

After having lived alone for many years, 
with few acquaintances and no intimate 
friends, though greatly respected by the 
neighbors, her sight failed; and as her 
living had depended on the fine needle- 
work she did so well, she was obliged to 
seek a refuge among the Little Sisters. 
She was of great assistance to them in 
knitting the numerous pairs of stockings 
required by their large family; and for a 
long time occupied the position of portress, 
or lodge-keeper; so that really most of her 
working hours were passed in solitude, a 
privilege she appreciated. Always smiling 
and affable, there was, nevertheless, a look 
of deep sadness in her eyes, and about the 
gentle lips, never opened save in kindness 
and charity. 

I forget how it came about that I learned 
her story. I remember, though, that she 
told me she had kept it from all the world, 
save her confesSor, for more than thirty 
years. I wish I could tell it as she related 
it to me; but I can only give the facts. 


70 CHEONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


more strange, as they are always in real 
life, than the wildest fiction. 

‘ ‘ I was a girl of twenty, ’ ’ she said — 
“ an orphan girl, — when I first met my 
husband. He was at least ten years older 
than I, but a lively, jolly fellow; while I 
never cared much for frolicking. But we 
were drawn together from the first, and 
were married after a courtship of a few 
months. My parents had come to this 
country when I was a little child, but John 
had not been in America more than five 
years when I married him. He was a 
carpenter, I a seamstress, and together 
we made a nice living; for, having no 
children, I had a good deal of spare time 
on my hands, and kept on sewing. 

“ Very soon we had our own little home, 
nicely furnished, with a garden full of 
flowers; for we were both very fond of 
them, and spent many an hour beautifying 
the place. There was not a happier 
woman in the world than I. My husband 
was kindness itself; I never saw a frown 
on his face, nor heard him sigh. If ever 
true love existed, it was between him and 
me. 

“One day I was busy getting dinner, 


A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. 


71 


when through the open door, for it was 
summer time, I saw a woman coming up 
the walk. I have never forgotten it, — I 
can never forget it. I can see the roses 
on their long stalks; I can smell the pepper- 
mint near the doorstep; I can feel the 
breath of the soft, sweet, summery air. 
The woman was perhaps fifty years old, 
shabbily and tawdrily dressed; her bonnet 
was falling off her head, her eyes were red 
and bloodshot, her face repulsive. By the 
time she reached the threshold I could tell 
that she had been drinking. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Poor creature ! ’ I thought. ‘ She wants 
a drink of water this warm day.’ She 
walked directly in without knocking, and 
said, abruptly: 

“ ‘ Is your name Mary Connell? ’ 

“ ‘ It is,’ I said. ‘What is your business 
with me? ’ 

“‘And is John Connell, the man who 
calls himself your husband, a carpenter 
from the parish of X. , Co. N. , Ireland? ’ 

“‘The man who calls himself my hus- 
band!’ I exclaimed. ‘John’ — for as I 
spoke he stepped into the room. 

* ‘ With an oath — the first I had ever 
heard him utter — he greeted the woman, 


72 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


who had faced him as he came in; then, 
white as a sheet, he fell against the dresser. 

“ ‘ He is mj/ husband! ’ she shouted, with 
a drunken laugh. ‘And he will not deny 
it, — he cannot: I have my marriage lines 
in my pocket. ’ 

“I thought he was going to die, there 
came such a look of age, of horror into his 
face. I pushed him into a chair, though 
I could no more than stand myself. 

“ ‘ Is she your wife, John?’ I asked; and 
I did not know my own voice, it sounded so 
strange and husky. 

“‘God help me and forgive me, Mary, 
she is! ’ he answered, his head falling on 
his breast like one in a swoon. 

“‘Then this is not the place for me,’ 
I said, taking off my apron and going into 
the next room. He followed me there, 
crying and asking me what I was going 
to do. I did not answer him, because my 
heart was beating so loud that I could not 
speak. And the remembrance of it all now 
seems like a dream. 

“‘I was only a boy, Mary,’ he said; 

‘ and she was years older than I. I hated 
her, but she and her brothers ensnared me 
the only time I was ever drunk. And 


A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. 


73 


I believed her dead, Mary,’ — oh, I did! 
Can you think I would have done you such 
a wrong, my darling, that I love better 
than my life? ’ 

“‘You ought to have made sure,’ I 
.answered at last, my heart beginning to 
grow hard and cold. 

‘ ‘ He rushed from the room, and I heard 
their angry voices outside, while I got 
together a few little things in a small 
satchel. I had fifty dollars in a purse in 
the drawer, my own savings. I put this 
in my pocket, and stole out softly through 
the hall. I wanted to catch the one o’clock 
Western Express. I was lucky enough to 
be in time; and I came to this city, 
hundreds of miles from my happy New 
England home. Thirty years have passed, 
and now it is near the end.’’ 

“And you have heard nothing of him 
in all that time? ’ ’ 

“Yes: there were advertisements in the 
Pilot, but I took no notice of them. Of 
what use? She was his wife; and, as I 
said that day, that house was no place 
for me. ’ ’ 

“And you have felt bitterly toward 
him?’’ 


74 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’^ 


“No, thank God. I believe he told me 
the truth. The only bitterness was that 
he did not tell me the story before I married 
him. It was my cross. God ordained it, 
and I have striven to be content. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Have you never met any of your 
former friends? ” 

“Strangely enough, never. I used to 
fear it at first; but I aged rapidly: my hair 
got white, and my name is too common a 
one to excite any suspicion.” 

“Was it at first that those advertise- 
ments appeared in the Pilots or of late 
years?” I asked. 

‘ ‘ In the beginning, and at intervals long 
after. I had not seen any for a good while 
before I came here. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Did it never occur to you that the other 
wotnan might have died ? ’ ’ 

She looked at me in surprise. ‘ ‘ I never 
thought of that,” she said; “never, never, 
until this moment. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Surely if he were living, and wanted 
you to return, you would marry him again?” 

“I would! — oh, yes, I would!” she 
answered, passionately. “He is as deep 
in this old heart today as he was the day 
I left him.’' 


A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. 


75 


Though I said little, I thought: “Poor, 
faithful heart; dear, patient heart! If 1 
can bring you help, it shall be done.” 

I went to Sister Emilia and told her the 
story. She entered with avidity into my 
plan, which was nothing more or less than 
the insertion of an advertisement in the 
Pilot, asking for information of John 

Connell, formerly of , Mass., who, if 

living, was requested to come, if possible, 
to the Convent of the Tittle Sisters in X. 

Weeks passed; we heard nothing. But 
one bright June morning a messenger came 
to tell me I was wanted immediately at the 
Tittle Sisters. I hastened to obey the 
summons; and found, instead of the lodge* 
keeper. Sister Emilia waiting for me in 
the little room. 

“It is well you are come,” she said, 
smiling. “Now haste away to the wed- 
ding.” 

“What wedding, — whose ? ” I asked, in 
astonishment. 

“Mrs. Connell’s,” was the reply. “ Her 
husband came last night, all the way from 
Vermont; and they are only waiting for 
you to be bridesmaid. The carriage is at 
the door, the old cottple in the parlor. 


76 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


Come at once and be introduced to the 
bridegroom, who wishes to thank you for 
his happiness. ’ ’ 

We found them sitting on the old horse- 
hair sofa, hand clasped in hand. He was 
a tall, fine-looking man of perhaps seventy. 
She sat beside him, shy as a girl with 
her first lover, a bright rose spot on either 
cheek. 

Thanks, congratulations, and exclama- 
tions were in order. (I shall spare the 
reader.) And after the bride-to-be had 
taken an affectionate leave of the Tittle 
Sisters, and the prospective bridegroom 
had presented a substantial token of grat- 
itude, we three entered the carriage, and 
in half an hour I had the pleasure of 
assisting at one of the happiest wedding 
ceremonies it has ever been my good 
fortune to witness. 

After it was over they took an early 
train for the East, and I returned home, 
marvelling at the strange ruling of earthly 
events, and the inscrutable ways of Provi- 
dence. I afterward learned that the woman 
who had broken up the peaceful home lived 
only a few months after she had installed 
herself in the place. 


A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. 


77 


One letter came from the old couple to 
say that they were well and happy, and 
very grateful; and then we heard no more 
of the pair, whose strange and sad experi- 
ence had separated two loving hearts for 
so many lonely, weary years. 



VI. 

THK STORY OF WITTIAM BODINK. 

Everyone knows Bodine’s planing fac- 
tory, stair factory, mantel factory. They 
are the largest of the kind in the great 

manufacturing city of X . The head 

of the firm, a prominent member of the 
Methodist Church, is distinguished for 
his large and generous charities. His 
name may be seen on all committees 
of investigation and amelioration of the 
condition of the indigent classes; he is 
also a large shareholder and director in 
various syndicates and bonded companies. 
His wife, too — a large, fair, blonde woman; 
a little overdressed, perhaps, and a trifle 
loud in speech, — is foremost in every good 
work, and has been especially prominent 
in connection with the Protestant Home 
for Aged Men and Women. To be sure, 
there have been whispers among the would- 
be four hundred of the metropolis that the 
Bodine family tree is but newly grafted, 

78 


rCHE STORY OP WILLIAM BODINE. 


79 


and a scrubby shoot at that; but people 
are often envious when their neighbors 
have made a success in life, even though 
outwardly maintaining the most friendly 
and sociable relations. One does not need 
to have lived in the world many years to 
have learned this. 

At the Home of whose inmates these 
humble chronicles have essayed to relate 
some incidents it is customary for the old 
men to take an airing in a large park in 
the vicinity once or twice a week. I had 
often noticed an old man sitting alone on 
a bench in the yard, smoking his pipe in a 
contented meditative way; yet with a half 
sad, half wistful expression that interested 
me. Subsequently I made his acquaint- 
ance, through the medium of a package 
of tobacco, one of many that had been 
given me by a generous friend for the poor 
old men. I discovered at once that he was 
English, and very soon afterward that 
he was not a Catholic, as he seldom or 
never attended Mass or Benediction. 

One sunny morning in early spring I had 
met all those who were able sauntering 
down the road to the park, but found my 
new friend sitting in his accustomed place 


80 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTEESJ 


in the courtyard. After I had transacted 
my business with Sister Emilia, I said: 

“Why does not that old Englishman 
ever go with the others to the park ? He 
does not seem very feeble, but I have never 
seen him out walking.” 

“No, he is not too feeble,” she replied; 
‘ ‘ yet far from strong. He must have been 
a fine specimen of manhood once; for he 
tells me he is past eighty.” • Then, after 
scanning me with her own peculiar, quiz- 
zical expression, a pleasant smile illumined 
her face as she continued: “He has a 
reason, which I believe he would tell you 
if you were to ask him. It is not mine to 
tell, though I know it. But you seem to 
have the gift of getting the confidence of 
the old people. Suppose you ask him, in 
a casual way, as you go out.” 

“Very well,” I said. “I have already 
felt some curiosity about him. He seems 
so very decent and self-respecting; and I 
have wondered also why, being a Protes- 
tant, he did not make an effort to enter one 
of their homes for the aged. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I believe a hundred dollars is required 
as entrance fee, recommendations also; and 
there are always many more applicants 


THE STORY OF WILLIAM BODINE. 


81 


than there is room for. But our William 
had another good and sufficient reason. 
Run away and ask him,” said the Sister, 
as she left me at the foot of the steps. 
‘ ‘ He has a strange story he could tell you. ’ ’ 

The Fates were propitious. William 
had just finished filling his pipe as I halted 
near the bench, and after a couple of strong 
pulls he said: 

“Morning, ma’am. I always think oi 
you when I take a pull at the pipe; for 
that tobacco you gave me was the best I’ve 
had since I came to the country. The 
pipe is a great comforter when one is sad, 
ma’am.” 

“I will have some more for you when 
that is gone,” I said. “An invalid gentle- 
man, who feels for the needs of his poorer 
friends, keeps me supplied with it.” 

“God bless him and you, ma’am!” he 
replied. “The world’s not all hard and 
bad, after all; though there was a day, 
not long since, when I wouldn’t have 
said it.” 

“But you are quite content in this 
pleasant home, are you not ? ” 

“Yes, ma’am; more than content. Please 
God, I’ll end my days here nx3w.” 


82 CHRONICLES OF “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


“Why do you never go out walking 
with the rest ? ” I inquired, seating myself 
beside him. 

Taking the pipe from his mouth, and 
looking at me from between half-shut lids, 
he paused a moment as if considering 
before he answered: 

“ I’m afeard, ma’am, — I’m afeard; and 
that proud that I wouldn’t be seen for a 
thousand pounds; no, not if it was paid in 
hand.” 

“Afraid of what?” I asked. “Surely 
no one could have any reason for hurting 
an old man like you. ’ ’ 

“You don’t understand, ma’am,” he 
said, becoming more excited with every 
word. “I’m afeard they’ll find me, and 
I don’t want them to. I want them to 
be uneasy. For her I don’t care in the 
least; but I’d like him to be uneasy, —to 
feel that maybe he had my death at his 
door. I’m not a good Christian, ma’am; 
though in times past I thought I was 
among the best. I have a revengeful 
heart, ma’am; and I’ve never asked the 
Tord to change it.” 

He laid down the pipe that had been 
but now such a solace, and removed his 


THE STORY OF WILLIAM BODINE. 


83 


hat to wipe the perspiration from his 
wrinkled face. The poor old hand 
trembled so violently that I took the 
handkerchief and wiped his forehead as 
gently as I could, sorry that I had unwit- 
tingly been the cause of so much pain. 

“Don’t go, ma’am,” he said, pleadingly, 
— “don’t go. I’ll be over this presently, 
and then I shall be all right again. I’m 
bound to tell you the whole story, you’ve 
been so kind. But you’ll not talk of it, — 
you’re no talker ? ” 

“You can trust me, ’ ’ I said. ‘ ‘ Although 
a woman, I never talk for the sake of talk. 
And your story, whatever it is, will be safe 
with me — at least while you are living.” 

After restoring his pipe to its first con- 
dition by a few whiffs, he made me resume 
my seat beside him, and told me, as nearly 
as I can remember, the following strange, 
sad story: 

“I know from the direction I’ve seen 
you come, and as they’ve told me you’ve 
lived long in these parts, that you have 
some knowledge of, perhaps acquaintance 
with, the family of Bodine — him that has 
the stair factory, and so on.” 

‘ ‘ Yes, ” I replied. ‘ ‘ I have met his wife 


84 CHRONICLES. OF “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


once or twice, and I often see their names 
in the newspapers. They are very prom- 
inent people. ’ ’ 

“So I’ve heard, ma’am; so I’ve heard. 
My name is Bodine, — William Bodine. 
The great B is my son.” 

“And you are here!” I exclaimed, in- 
voluntarily lifting my eyes to the tower 
of a massive stone residence, which could 
be faintly discerned through the trees that 
embowered it, though it was nearly a mile 
away. 

The old man’s glance followed me, and 
he looked in silence for a moment. 

“Is that the place, ma’am? ” he asked. 
“I’ve thought so many a time, though I 
wasn’t sure; never having seen the place 
but once, and that in a flash of lightning, 
as it were.” 

“Yes, that is it,” I answered. “But 
how is it possible — ’ ’ 

“That’s just what I’m going to tell you, 
ma’am. Forty years ago I was a journey- 
man carpenter at Feeds, with a fine family 
of girls about me. My wife was dead. 
There was only one lad; and he a bit wild, 
but a good workman. We were not very 
well off in the world’s goods, but comfort- 


THE STOKY OF WILLIAM BODINE. 


85 


able enough. Two of the girls were mar- 
ried to decent tradesmen; two of them 
worked at the milliner’s trade; and Patty, 
the eldest, kept the house. ’Twas just 
before the Crimean War, when my lad, 
with two others, heard strange tales of the 
pressgang; and as none of them cared for 
soldiering, one fine morning the three 
started for America. And, strange as it 
may seem, that was the last I heard of 
Willie for near forty years. 

“Things went hard with me. I got the 
rheumatism in my left hand. My two fine 
girls died of the cholera. The married 
ones sailed for Australia, with their families, 
to better themselves; and the ship was 
never heard of again. Patty, the only one 
left, sickened after this, and went off in 
a decline. And so I lived from hand to 
mouth — a job here and a day there, — till 
my eyesight began to fail, and I saw 
nothing ahead of me but the workhouse. 
That is a terrible thing for an honest, 
decent man, — one, too, that was never 
beholden to any one for a shilling. Never 
a word came to me from over- seas; I made 
no doubt but my lad was dead and gone. 
I never thought he’d have deserted his 


86 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


old father like that; for when he was a 
boy he was very affectionate. 

“.One day, two years come this June, I 
carried a bag for a gentleman from one 
lodging to another. On the way he told 
me he was an American from this town. 
He asked me my name. I gave it to him 
in full as my father had me christened — 
William Cummis Bodine. * Why,’ said he, 
‘ there’s a rich fellow in our place at home 
with that very name! An Englishman, 
too, I believe. I wonder if he’s a relative? 
Such an odd name, you know.’ I divined 
that minute that the man he spoke of was 
my own lad; but if he was rich, it wouldn’t 
be me that would be the first to let a 
stranger know of the poverty of his poor 
old father. ‘ What trade does he follow, 
sir ? ’ I asked. ‘ He is what we call a 
builder, and has window and stair factories 
besides. ’ I made sure from that, but was 
crafty enough to say nothing. 

“As soon as I got back to my poor little 
place I wrote a letter to my lad, and after 
a month’s time got an answer enclosing 
ten pounds. He had prospered well, he 
said, of late years; but in the beginning 
had met with many reverses, and was so 


THE STORY OF WILLIAM BODINE. 


87 


discouraged that he could not write. After- 
ward he thought me dead. 

“Oh, if I had only let well enough 
alone! I wrote back, asking him to send 
for me; that I wanted to see him once 
before I died, as he was all I had left in 
the world. When he answered that letter 
he told me to wait till spring, when he and 
his wife were coming over, and that they 
would take me back with them. This 
letter had a five-pound note. Crazy that I 
was, I wouldn’t take the counsel of that 
good mab the minister, who advised me 
to bide a little; but I feared that, old as I 
was and weakly, I should be dead before 
spring, and might never see my lad again. 
Says he: ‘William, your son has lived 
forty years without seeking you: do not 
thrust yourself on him now. Wait till he 
comes over. And, more than that, how do 
you know what kind of a wife he has?’ 
(This was when I told him my purpose 
of coming to America directly. ) I would 
hear none of him, ma’am; but, after buying 
a few little things I needed, took steerage 
passage from Liverpool at once. I spent one 
day in New York, and reached this place 
with a couple of shillings in my pocket. 


88 CHKONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“And had you given your son no inti- 
mation of your coming? ” I asked. 

“None whatever, ma’am. I wanted to 
surprise him like,” he said, with a bitter 
smile. “And I did; and he surprised me, 
too, I assure you. 

“It was of a Saturday morning in late 
October, and I went to the factory — I had 
the address from the letters he wrote. He 
hadn’t got down, the young fellow in the 
ofl&ce said, — hadn’t been there for a couple 
of days; was not feeling well. I asked for 
the address of his dwelling-place, which 
he gave kindly enough; remarking, though, 
that Mr. Bodine didn’t like to be bothered 
that way. ‘ I promise you I shall not 
bother him,^ said I; and went on my way 
rejoicing. 

“The tram-cars, or street-cars as you 
call them here, took me most of the road. 
It was a long ride, and I hadn’t had a bite 
that morning. When I found the place, 
with the name cut into the stone pillar 
of the gateway, I felt a bit flustered; for 
I had never imagined anything so fine for 
my lad. I went to the side door; a man- 
servant opened it. I asked for the master. 
‘Sick,’ said the lackey, short hke that; 


THE STORY OF WILLIAM BODINE. 


89 


and was about to shut the door in my face. 
A stout, handsome woman was passing 
through the hall. 

“‘What is it, my good man?’ said she. 
‘ Can I serve you in any way ? Perhaps 
you are an applicant for admission to the 
Home for Aged Men. If so, I am sorry 
to say there are no vacancies at present.’ 

“ I felt the red rise in my old cheek. 
‘No, ma’am,’ said I. ‘It is Mr. Bodine 
I want speech with. I have come many 
a mile over land and sea, ma’am; and have 
longed for this day for forty years. ’ 

“‘An old family servant, perhaps,’ said 
she, taking me by the hand. Then, giving 
a sharp look at the grinning footman, or 
whatever you may call him, beside her, 
she said, ‘You may go, Hopkins.’ Turning 
to me: ‘ Come into the library, and I will 
see if my husband can receive you.’ She 
drew me into the room and shut the door 
fast. ‘Old man,’ said she, ‘who are you? ’ 
“‘I am William Bodine’ s father,’ said 
I, wishing myself back in England with 
every breath; for there were hatred and 
anger in the woman’s eye, and there was 
no need to tell me she was my lad’s wife. 
“‘Stay there!’ she shrieked out, and 


90 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


went into the next room. I heard loud 
talking, the door opened and my lad came 
in. I knew him through all the changes 
of years.* 

“ ‘Is it true?’ she shouted, — ‘is it true? 
— is this old beggar your father ? ’ 

“‘Yes, Amanda,’ he said, trying to 
reach me; but she made a barrier of her 
hands. 

“ ‘ William,’ said I, ‘what does it mean? 
Madam, I am no beggar.’ 

“ ‘You are a shameful old wretch!’ she 
said . ‘ I never heard of you before today. 

If you are his father, he will have to do 
something for you, no doubt; but in the 
meantime we shall have to hide you some- 
where till we can dispose of you. ’ 

“‘Father,’ said my boy, leaning against 
the door — he looked weak and ill, — ‘why 
did you not wait until the spring? ’ 

“‘So you did know of it, did you?’ 
cried the woman.' ‘You haven’t thought 
him dead all these years? Where shall I 
put you, old man, so that the servants may 
not know, until we can send you back?’ 
And she tramped up and down the room 
like a mad woman. 

‘ ‘ I was weak from fasting, and tired 


THE STORY OF WILLIAM BODINE. 


91 


from my long journey; and I am a very 
old man, ma’am, — a very old man. But 
my blood was never hotter than at that 
moment, when I dashed the creature aside 
and strode up to my lad. 

“‘William,’ said I, ‘is that how it is to 
be? Are you ashamed of your old father?’ 

“‘No,’ he said, — ‘no, father; but it is 
awkward, and my wife never knew. Be 
quiet, and we will think about what is to 
be done.’ 

“With that I took up my stick. ‘There 
is only one thing to be done,’ I said. ‘I 
was a poor fool, I know; but I am a man 
again. May God forgive you — after He 
has punished you,’ I said; ‘but my fare 
you will never see again ! ’ 

“Before either of them could speak, I 
rushed from the room. For indeed, ma’am, 
I was sore afeard they’d have me taken for 
a lunatic. I’ve read of such. I wandered 
up one road and down another all that day, 
eating a few beech nuts I found in the 
park. Toward nightfall I saw this place 
with the cross above it, and I knew they’d 
take me in if any one would. ’Twas 
lucky. An old man had died that day. 
I told the good Mother my story, and 


92 CHRONICLES OP ‘^THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


showed her the name in my hat, and on 
some of my linen. They sent to the 
station for my box, and here I’ve been ever 
since, happy and content. It’s somewhat 
queer, though; I oftentimes study it over. 
I came from the dread of the poorhouse 
at home to the poorhouse here. But 
it’s different: no one knows me.’* 

“And what of your son? ** 

“Nothing, ma’am; only I never want 
them to find me, living or dead. I hope 
they think I’ve drowned myself, ma’am. 
I hope they’re kept awake nights by the 
thought of me.” 

“And you will not allow the Sisters to 
make any sign ? ’ ’ 

“I’ve told those good Sisters that the 
first wink they’d give, I was away to the 
lake in the park, ma’am, — as I would be,” 
he said, with an air of grim determination 
that made me shiver. Then he added: 
“Living, a bite and sup, ma’am; dead, 
the Potter’s Field, — that’s all I ask. And 
I leave the Lord to do what He likes with 
those that left me this way. The Sisters 
won’t betray me, never fear: I trust them. 
But I’ll never put my feet out of this as 
long as they’ll keep me, lest they should 


THE STOEY OF WILLIAM BODINE. 


93 


find ont I was living. I want to torture 
them — ^hm! hm! ” 

“The pipe was lying idly on the bench 
now, and the old man peered at me again 
through half-closed eyes, rubbing his hands 
together with a sort of savage glee. 

“William,” I said, after a pause, during 
which I was undecided whether or not to 
give him some information I possessed, 

‘ ‘ I think they have advertised for you — 
that they are still trying to find you. 
Your son, no doubt, is deeply sorry; and 
— and — perhaps I had better fetch you 
the daily paper. ’ ’ 

“Do, ma’am, do!” said the old man, 
eagerly. “I’ll be obliged to you.” 

‘ ‘ In the meantime try and get into a 
better frame of mind, and pray all you can. 
Do not let your last days be altogether 
clouded by this sad affair. ’ ’ 

“I’ve heard many a preacher, ma’am, 
in my time,” replied the old man, dryly; 
“and I’m old enough almost to be your 
grandfather. Only don’t blab; and an- 
other bit of that fine tobacco when you 
come again, please. Why, bless your soul. 
I’m happy as the day is long!” 

And so I left him. When I returned 


94 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


home I sought and found the advertisement 
referred to. It had appeared in the paper 
daily for months, and read as follows: 

“If W. C. B., lately of Leeds, England, will 
communicate with his son, he will greatly relieve 
the mind of 

“W. C. B.” 

I took it to Sister Emilia, who laid it 
before the good Mother. After mature 
deliberation they decided that no one had 
any right to interfere without the permis- 
sion of the old man. When I showed it 
to him, he seemed to gloat over it. He 
read it again and again, and asked per- 
mission to keep it. But my purpose en- 
tirely failed of its object. “I thought I 
could torture them,” he said; ” I knew I 
could.” After that the subject was never 
renewed between us. We would talk to- 
gether in a friendly way, and he often 
made room .for me on the bench where he 
always sat, on fair days, smoking his briar- 
wood pipe. 

But he grew feeble with the winter cold, 
and after the holidays took to his bed. 
When the Sisters became satisfied that he 
could not live much longer, they asked if 
he would have a minister. “No,” he said. 


THE STOEY OF WILLIAM BODINE. 


95 


“Just ask that young priest that serves 
here to step in of a morning and pray the 
Lord’s Prayer with me.’* 

The obliging Father spent several half 
hours with the old man after this; and on 
one occasion left him a crucifix, which he 
kept about him until the end. 

One day, toward the close of Lent, 
Sister Emilia asked him if he would not 
allow her to send for his son. 

“You know, William,” she remarked 
gently, ‘ ‘ you wish to die at peace with 
all mankind; and Christ on the Cross 
forgave His enemies. ’ * 

He deliberated for a while, and thus 
replied: “ Well, yes. Sister — for the lad’s 
sake though, not mine. Send for him in 
the morning. ’ ’ 

When Sister Emelia went to his bedside 
at the dawn of day, she found he had died 
peacefully in the night, without disturbing 
any one about him. 

Released from their promise of secrecy 
by the permission of the day before, the 
Little Sisters sent at once to his son. What 
occurred I never inquired, but I know 
that an overflowing hamper goes from the 
stone house on the hill to the Home at 


96 CHEONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS,’ 


Christmas- time; that on the annual list 
of contributions to the work of the I^ittle 
Sisters there is always a cheque for one 
hundred dollars signed, “William Cummis 
Bodine’’; also that on the large monument 
in the Bodine lot, in one of the most beauti- 
ful cemeteries in the land, are traced these 
lines: “William Cummis Bodine, Sr. 
Died 1 8 — , full of good deeds and virtues, 
in the eighty-fourth year of his age. ’ ’ 

Tardy reparation perhaps, yet who shall 
say unacceptable to the Almighty? 


VII. 

AN ECCENTRIC OED COUPEE. 

One day the good Mother was summoned 
to the parlor to receive two old people who 
were seeking admission. They proved to 
be a man of about seventy, and his wife, 
probably a little younger. They were de- 
cently dressed, had a couple of changes 
of clothing in an old satchel, and presented 
a look of thriftiness at variance with their 
poor condition. But they told a straight- 
forward story of a life of industry brought 
to poverty by a chain of untoward circum- 
stances. And when the old man capped 
the climax of his pitiful tale by taking 
fifty dollars from a tattered wallet, and 
placing it in the Sister’s hand, with the 
words, “Take it, Sister, and do the best 
you can for us with it,” her sympathy took 
on the added sentiment of admiration. It 
seemed so pathetic and so honest, she said, 
thus to surrender their last dollar to her 
care, that she made no demur about receiv- 

&7 


98 CHRONICLES OP “the LITTLE SISTERS." 

ing them, though the house was already 
full. 

For four years they were most exemplary 
inmates. The old lady was quite industri- 
ous, and made herself useful in various 
small ways. Her husband had a genius 
for gardening, and spent much time among 
the plants and flowers. They always went 
into the city on recreation days, if the 
weather was favorable; but saw no visitors, 
and received no letters. 

One Monday morning they went out 
as usual; evening came, and they had not 
returned. The next day the Sisters dis- 
covered that the old satchel containing 
some winter clothing had been taken, 
from which they inferred that the depart- 
ure of the old couple had been foreseen 
and planned. None of the old people were 
aware of their intentions; and, although 
the Sisters regretted the circumstance, their 
places were soon filled, and the matter 
soon passed into oblivion. 

Two years subsequently one of the 
Little Sisters was transferred to a New 
York house; and after a few months’ resi- 
dence there, was sent with a companion 
by her superior to investigate the case of 


AN ECCENTRIC OLD COUPLE. 


99 


an applicant in a small adjacent town, 
who asked for admission to the Home. 

It was almost twilight when the Sisters 
left the cars, and were not quite certain 
of the direction of the convent where 
they w^ere to pass the night. A pretty 
little cottage, surrounded by trees and 
flowers, stood a short distance from the 
roadside; and the vegetable garden behind 
it was neat and well cared for. An old man 
sat in the doorway smoking. As the Sister 
lifted the latch of the gate to enter the 
garden, she noticed something familiar in 
his aspect, as well as in that of the old 
woman who stepped to the threshold. 

“Can you tell me,” she began — “why, 
it is Patrick Donlan! And you, Bridget!” 
she continued, as the old woman shrank 
back into the kitchen. ‘ ‘ What brought 
you here, Patrick?” 

“Holy Moses, it’s Sister Clara!” he 
exclaimed; and without further ado ran 
as briskly as his legs could carry him to the 
back of the yard, leaving his wife to bear 
the brunt of inquiry as best she might. 

Seeing no alternative, the old woman 
put a bold face on the matter, and replied 
as she came forward: 

ti 

J 


100 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“It’s me, then, that’s glad to see you. 
Sister Clara; though you’re the last one 
I was expecting. Come’ in. Sister dear; 
and you, too. Sister, and have chairs. 
’Tis a shame for Pat to run away.’’ 

The Sisters entered as bidden, and sat 
down. Without waiting to be further in- 
terrogated, the woman continued: 

“Ye see. Sister, — we — we were taken — 
as it were, — I mean — yes Pat!’’ as she 
hastened to the window, whither by some 
signal unnoticed by her visitors she had 
been summoned. “Begging your pardon 
for a minute. Sisters. Pat wants me, and 
I’ll be back shortly.’’ 

Wherewith she disappeared, and all 
without was silent. The guests, particu- 
larly Sister Clara, employed the interval 
in looking about them. The room in 
which they sat was large and very comfort- 
able; through two open doors they caught 
glimpses of a well-furnished sitting-room 
and neat bedroom. 

Time passed; it was growing dark, and 
their hosts did not return. At length they 
arose and passed out into the road, as it 
was evident the old people were purposely 
absenting themselves. They found the 


AN ECCENTRIC OLD COUPLE. 


101 


convent without much difficulty. In the ' 
morning, after having performed her errand 
in the town, Sister Clara returned to the 
convent, where she made some inquiries 
as to her friends of the preceding evening, 
the former inmates of the Home at ly . 

To her surprise, she learned that Patrick 
Donlan had been in the employ of the 
railroad for many years, until old age 
interfered with his usefulness, and was 
considered a w^ell-to-do man in the place. 
However, he and his wife bore the reputa- 
tion of being penurious, and were never 
known to contribute anything to church 
purposes or charity of any kind. Six 
years previous their only son, a wild fellow, 
had got into some trouble; and in order 
to pay the large fine consequent upon his 
misdemeanor, his father had to mortgage 
his house and lot for several hundred dol- 
lars. He had then rented the place for 
three years, at a hundred dollars a year; 
and, having obtained a pass from the rail- 
road company for himself and his wife, 
had gone West, ostensibly to visit relatives. 
Their long absence had been commented 
upon; but they had finally returned, and 
were once more living in their old home. 


102 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

The superior had heard that their son, 
having reformed, contributed to their sup- 
port; which Patrick also eked out by the 
sale of flowers, plants, and vegetables, and 
an occasional day at light gardening. 

A few years after, when relating the 
event. Sister Clara said her admiration of 
their ingenuity had almost dispelled what- 
ever natural indignation she might have 
felt at their deceit. On her way to the 
train she stopped at the house; but the 
doors were closed, and all was silent about 
the place. No doubt they had thought it 
wisest to absent themselves until after her 
departure. She had a humorous vein in 
her nature, which she evidenced in this 
case by writing on a slip of paper the fol- 
lowing reminder of her presence: “When 
you are really in poverty and have no 
home, come to the Tittle Sisters, and they 
will receive you.” Slipping it under the 
door, she pursued her journey. 

“It seems almost incredible,” she said, 

‘ ‘ that old people used to the comforts of 
their own home would voluntarily sur- 
render them for such a length of time, 
and live apparently in such content and 
happiness as they appeared to enjoy while 


AN ECCENTRIC OLD COUPLE. 


103 


with us. Doubtless the plan originated in 
a desire to retrieve, as soon as possible, the 
loss entailed by the wrong-doing of their 
son. I believe also that they did it without 
any misgivings as to the injustice of it, 
as far as we were concerned. They gave 
our good Mother fifty dollars when they 
entered, and during the time they remained 
with us both earned their board and lodg- 
ing. Perhaps they considered us in their 
debt; who knows ? 

‘ ‘ It was very ingenious on their part to 
have selected a city so far removed from 
their own home as a basis of operations,’* 
I remarked. 

“Yes, indeed; and it must have cost 
the poor things not a little to leave their 
pretty home for so long a time. To me 
the manner of their leave-taking was 
in keeping with the rest of the story. 
They were ashamed, and knew not how 
otherwise to demean themselves. From 
their extremely narrow point of view, I 
can really sympathize with them.’’ 

‘ ‘ You will end by considering them a 
greatly wronged and unappreciated couple, 
in that you neglected to take up a collec- 
tion for them on your return to L 


104 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

I replied, amused at her charitable logic. 

“Now you are quizzing me,’ ^ she said, 
her bright face a ripple of smiles. ‘ ‘ But 
consider their fright and mortification 
when they saw me that evening. At 
bottom was the kindly Irish heart, therefore 
they could not have helped but suffer. 
Nay, do not look so incredulous, and shake 
your head in that provoking way. Noth- 
ing will make me believe but that the 
whole affair will be a source of regret and 
shame to them while they live, — I mean 
now that they are found out, poor souls! 
I know they are not ungrateful. ’ ’ 

She was not far wrong in her kindly 
estimate of the old culprits. A few 
months later the I^ittle Sisters received 
a bequest of two hundred dollars, left to 
them by the will of Patrick Donlan, 
deceased, late of R , New York. 



VIII. 

A I,IFE)-I,ONG SORROW. 

It is again a sweet, pale-faced old Ger- 
man woman the story of whose sorrows 
I have chosen for the subject of the present 
sketch. A painful chronic disease had 
made it impossible for her to continue her 
avocation ‘ of washing and mending fine 
laces. She had not been long at the I^ittle 
Sisters when I spoke to her one pleasant 
morning, as she sat on the piazza feeding the 
pigeons, who circled about her, eager for 
the crumbs she scattered on the gravel-walk. 

“You like the pigeons and birds?” I 
inquired, — I had often seen her talking to 
the canaries that hung on the porch beside 
her accustomed seat. 

‘ ‘ Yes, ’ ’ she replied. ‘ ‘ In my own home, 
near Vienna, my father, who loved all 
living things, had many like these, but 
much finer. He was a schoolmaster and 
also a music- teacher, and very hard- worked, 
— such was his recreation.” 

105 


106 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

On this occasion, and frequently there- 
after, we conversed together with great 
freedom. I found her interesting, and my 
companionship seemed to afford her pleas- 
ure. But we had been friends some time 
before I learned that she had an almost 
life-long sorrow, of a nature so terrible 
that I could not help wondering how she 
had endured it for so many years without 
losing her reason. 

One day my little boy, a curly-haired 
child of three, accompanied me to the 
Home. It was a sunny day, and he played 
about the walks while I sat with old Mrs. 
Kaulbach on the piazza. Suddenly she 
called him to her. Taking his little hand, 
she pressed it passionately, tears in her 
eyes. As he ran away, she said to me: 

“Not often I notice the child, madam; 
but not because I do not love him. It 
makes me too much think of my own boy.” 

“Ah! you perhaps lost one at his age?” 
I said, sympathizingly. 

“Yes, lost him, — you are right. He 
went away from me one day, and I never 
saw him again. That is my life story.” 

“And you never found him — never knew 
what became of him?’^ 


A LIFE-LONG SORROW. 


107 


‘*Not to this hour, madam. Thus I 
always see him, with his curls and his 
bright eyes, and the pretty velvet suit I 
had put on him for the first time.’^ 

She turned her sad eyes upon me as 
she spoke. They were filled with such an 
intensity of sorrow that I knew not how 
to answer her. Drawing her chair close 
to mine, she took my hand in both of hers. 

“I will tell you all,” she said. “Not 
often do I talk, but sometimes it is a relief. 
My husband too was a music-teacher, and 
I. We came to this country young; we 
thought to get rich, perhaps, in America. 
He was a good fellow, but too fond of 
company; so it happened that when he 
became engaged in an orchestra that he 
sometimes drank too much. But he was 
kind to me always, and loved our child, — 
our dear Herman, named for my father. 

“But once, after the theatre, my hus- 
band, my Touis, was cut with a plate 
which some one threw in play at a supper; 
and a blood-vessel was burst in his wrist. 
He was never strong after. Soon he could 
play no more on the violin; then he must 
stop giving his piano lessons. Some of 
them I took with my own. Then I could 


108 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

not leave him, he grew so weak, and the 
child was so young. Fine embroidery and 
lace mending and washing I could do, — in 
those days more money was made that way 
than now, I think. He died at last, leaving 
me alone with the child. 

“The little fellow was sweet and lovely; 
my heart was wrapped in him. Never did I 
go from the house without him; never did 
I leave him to the care of neighbors; never 
did I send him to play with children on the 
street; never even to the sidewalk did he 
go alone. To market I took him with me, 
to the grocer’s, to confession when I went 
on Saturdays, to Mass always. So that 
I should not leave him ever, I made that 
those who took lessons from me should 
come to my rooms for that. On Sundays 
and many times in the afternoons I took him 
by the hand into the green fields and to the 
Park. That was in Philadelphia city. 

“ Music he loved. He would stand at 
my side in the darkening hour to hear me 
play, and always with delight. We had 
no other friends or companions; we 
wanted none: we were enough for each 
other. Where we lived the people were 
good and decent, but not for me congenial; 


A LIFE-LONG SORROW. 


109 


though we were all kind together. High 
rent I could not pay, and it was of neces- 
sity that I should live in a humble place. 

‘ ‘ It was in April. I had made him a 
little velvet suit. He looked so pretty. I 
kissed him a dozen times. We were going 
to the Park. It was Sunday. I washed 
the dishes from our little dinner, and went 
to make ready. 

“ ‘ Mamma,’ he asked, ‘ may I sit on the 
door-step downstairs till you come ? ’ 

“ ‘You will not run away? ’ I said. 

“ ‘No, mamma; where should I run 
to? ’ he answered, sweetly. 

“ ‘Go then,’ said I; ‘I will hurry.’ 

“I kissed him, and he went down. In 
ten minutes I was ready. Other families 
lived in the house. The door was open. 
I called him: he was not there. Never, 
madam, from that moment have I seen his 
face nor heard anything of him. ’ ’ 

“Ah, poor mother! what a sorrow, what 
across!’’ I said. 

“Yes,” she replied, — “across of forty 
years. I went every place. The neighbors 
helped; poor people are always kind. It 
was in the papers a long time. I heard 
nothing. No one had seen him, even at 


110 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

the door. In the broad daylight, in the 
open street, who could take a little child 
without an outcry, without being seen? It 
was on the outskirts of the city. There 
was a gypsy camp not far away. He was 
not there. Two gypsy women came to me 
to say, to swear, they had not seen or taken 
the child. There was no place in which 
he could have fallen.” 

‘ ‘ I wonder that you lived. ’ ’ 

“ I prayed to die. I asked God to take 
my reason, that I could not think, that I 
might not remember. I never forgot for 
a single day, a single night. 

‘ ‘ I grew old fast. My hair turned white. 
Whenever I went out, my eyes were on 
every group of children. I lingered about 
the school-houses ; I went to the refuges ; 
at night I rushed into dark courts and 
alleys, and ran up steep stairs in tenement 
houses, when I heard the cry of a child. 
Sometimes in a crowd I have thought I 
saw his face. When I ran after such a 
child I found myself mistaken. And I so 
went on for a dozen years perhaps, for- 
getting that he would be growing older, 
always looking for the little boy of five. 

‘ ‘ At last I began to think not so would 


A LIFE-LONG SORROW. 


Ill 


he look now, but thus — like a lad, like a 
young man. Now, if he lives he must be 
middle-aged. Maybe he is adopted by 
some good people, who have loved and 
educated him ; maybe he is a good man. 
The worst thought is that perhaps he may 
have fallen among thieves, and that he 
may be even one of them. To dwell upon 
that thought would be to despair. That, 
too, I have done, — I have fought with God. 
I have blasphemed Him in my heart. I 
have been months without going into a 
church. But not now any more for a long 
time. 

‘ ‘ Once at Easter time, when I had not 
been at Mass all Tent, I dreamed I saw my 
boy again, but in his little white night- 
gown. He put his hand in mine, and said : 
‘ Mother, mother, be happy ! ’ I awoke 
and was consoled. From that day I have 
felt him to be in heaven; and if I force 
myself to think otherwise, the peace will 
still come back to me. 

‘ ‘ As the days go by, and I suffer more 
in my body, knowing that it is near the 
end, I seem to come close to him once 
more. At first I never dreamed of him; 
though all day long I thought of nothing 


112 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


else, and walked the streets in search of 
him far into the sleepless night. But now 
I long for the hours when I may dream, 
always of him. In my arms, a little baby, 
I am singing him to sleep ; his hand in 
mine as we walk together in the fields ; 
by my side in the darkness while I play 
the piano ; his arms around me in our 
sleep; at my knees saying his little prayer 
— so do I see him always. In the day I 
remember my dreams, and so am happy 
and resigned.” 

I could not speak to her. She saw it, 
and took my hand once more. 

” Ah, it hurts you, dear lady!” she said, 

‘ ‘ and I have been cruel ; but not so did I 
mean it. Sometimes, for years, not a word 
to a human soul; then, like a torrent, the 
memory and the grief overflows, and I 
must speak.” 

“No, no! It has relieved you,” I replied, 
“ and I am glad. But it is so terrible to 
think how you have suffered all these 
years, and must still suffer, that I have no 
words with which to offer consolation.” 

‘ ‘ Go, now, with your little boy, ’ ’ she 
said, turning abruptly away. ‘ ‘ Here he 
comes, laughing. lyove him and watch 


A LIFE-LONG SOEROW. 


113 


over him; and may the good God in His 
mercy spare him to you, — at least that if 
he should be taken, you may watch beside 
his dying bed.” 

I do not think that in all my life anything 
affected me like that poor old woman’s sad 
experience. It really was a joy to me to 
see her growing weaker every time I visited 
the Home after I had heard her story. And 
when, one bright spring morning, the 
Little Sisters told me she had died the 
night before, I felt a burthen of sorrow 
lifted from my soul, that seemed more real 
and personal than any vicarious suffering 
I had ever known. 



IX. 

A STRANGE, SAD STORY. 

It sometimes happens that old married 
couples who have lived happily together for 
many years are obliged, through stress of 
poverty and other misfortunes, to seek the 
shelter of the establishments of the I^ittle 
Sisters of the Poor in their declining days. 
I have frequently remarked that this 
crowning trial seems to be reserved for 
those to whom the privilege of spending 
the remnant of their lives in company would 
have been a most precious consolation. 
Doubtless Heaven has a supreme reward in 
store for these poor resigned creatures, — for 
they are seldom otherwise than resigned. 

During one day of each week they are 
permitted to be together, to go abroad if 
they have friends, or to wander about the 
grounds if they are not fortunate enough to 
have a visiting place. When the weather 
is inclement, they are forced to exchange 
their confidences and reminiscences in the 

114 


A STRANGE, SAD STORY. 


115 


ordinary sitting-room. I have often wished 
it could be differently arranged for these 
poor people; but no doubt it has been 
found impracticable, for there is nothing 
which is in their power to perform left un- 
done for their inmates by the Little Sisters. 

I was much interested in an old French 
couple who, at the time I made their 
acquaintance, had been protegh of the 
Little Sisters for several years. On recrea- 
tion days they were generally to be found 
in the Park near the Home, — sometimes 
walking under the trees, sometimes sitting 
hand in hand on one of the benches. I 
came upon them suddenly one morning as 
they sat conversing in low tones: 

“ Bon jour, Monsieur et Madame 
Duclos!^' I said., “You are like a pair of 
lovers sitting here. ’ ’ 

Smiling, they looked in each other’s 
face, while he answered: 

“Thanks, madame! Lovers we have 
been these many years; eh, Nanette?” 

“Yes, yes!” was the reply. “Ihafnot 
known that any two haf been more fond of 
each other than you and I, mon Jacques. 
But with love goes sorrow too, and of that 
we haf had much. ” 


116 CHRONICLES OF “tHE LITTLE SISTERS. 


“Yes? “ I said. “ It is sad that in your 
old age you should be thus separated, 
especially when in heart you are so 
united.” 

“No, no!” hastily answered the old 
man. “That we do not mind; or rather, I 
should say, we take it as right — from God, 
as a penance. ’ ’ 

“As a penance! ” I exclaimed. “Surely 
two such good people as you can not think 
yourselves deserving of such a penance ? ’ ’ 

They looked at each other gravely for a 
moment, then the old woman spoke: 

“We haf once been young, madame; 
and we haf not been always good.” 

‘ ‘ She speaks truth, ’ ’ said the old man, 
answering my look of incredulity. * ‘ It 
is a strange story, ours. We haf not 
murdered any one, and we haf not stolen; 
but in our lifetime we haf done wrong. 
It is now many years; and since the good 
God sends us crosses, we feel that He has 
forgiven us. Eh, Nanette?” 

“ So I hope, Jacques,” she said. “ Ah ! 
madame, it is true what they say in the 
book: ‘ Each life may be tragedy.’ Yours 
may haf story too, but not like ours. Who 
has lifed to be twenty-five or thirty years 


A 8TEANGE, SAD STORY. 


117 


knows that each in his heart has bitterness. 
Is it not so ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, ” I replied. “ But I feel 
confident that whatever yours may have 
been, the peace of God is certainly with 
you in your old age. ’ ’ 

“ May the good God grant that it is so! 
I hope that it is so, ” said the old woman 
reverently, as I passed on, leaving them to 
their sweet if sad reunion. 

The next time I met old Duclos in the 
Park he was alone. His Nanette had gone 
before him, as he said, to make easy the 
way he hoped soon to traverse. He was 
sitting on the same bench where that day 
they had been resting together; and I sat 
down beside him in sympathy, yet scarcely 
knowing what to say. On such occasions 
I have always hesitated to reopen the fresh 
wound. For a time he, too, was silent. 
At length he began: 

“ You are kind, madame, and well I 
know what is in your heart for me. To 
some it is given to feel without words what 
others feel for them: so it is with me. My 
dear Nanette also, she was of that kind. 
Over there,” waving his hand in the direc- 
tion of the Home, — “over there, the 


118 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

Sisters, I haf no words to speak of them, 
they are so good. The old people also, 
many are kind and haf been of sympathy 
wis me, and I haf thank them. But, 
pardon me, madame, you will understan’, 
many too are of rough nature. Nanette 
and me we were not of the common — what 
you call the lowest class; and we haf kept 
together; we haf not much like some of 
them. You understan’, madame? you not 
displease? ” 

When I had assured him that I under- 
stood and was not displeased, for I readily 
appreciated the truth of his words, he 
continued: 

“One day, madame, the last time she see 
you, I say that we haf done great wrong. 
Now that my dear Nanette has gone to 
wait for me in that home of heaven, I 
haf fought I better tell you what I mean, 
fear you may think other things. Wrong 
we haf done, but my de^r Nanette she was 
mostly innocent.” 

“As you wish, M. Duclos,” I said; “but 
I never gave it a thought after I left you. ’ ’ 

“Thanks, madame,” he replied. “You 
are good lady and Christian. But I will 
like to tell you all now. You haf been so 


A STRANGE, SAD STORY. 


119 


good at the end, wis the flowers at the 
coffin that you send. ’ ’ 

“Then, if it pleases you to tell it, I shall 
be pleased to hear,” I said. 

“It does please me,” he answered. “You 
haf seen, madame, that I haf been ver’ big 
and strong; and my Nanette she was ver’ 
small — little. At Nevers, where we lif, 
her father haf ver’ large baker-shop, he 
haf been pretty rich. He haf marry her 
when she is fifteen to another bakerman 
with ver’ large shop. He haf give her big 
dot; but, like in France, he haf not ask her 
if' she will. This man he been married 
three times before he marry Nanette, and 
no one like him. He been more than fifty 
years old. He haf beat and beat her; she 
frighten most to death, I haf been painter 
— sign-painter, — and I haf lodge in same 
house. I am twenty-five years old. I love 
Nanette; I am torn to pieces in my heart 
for pitying her. She not know it, madame 
— oh, no, she not know it, — not at all! 

“One night he beat her awful, then he 
go away on business to another town. I 
meet her on the stairs: I haf heard her 
scream. I say: ‘Come wis me; we run 
away together.’ She only a child, she 


120 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

innocent; she come, she so frighten of him. 
When we gone, then she know that I love 
her, that I want her for my wife; but say 
she can not stay wis me, or the people 
talk. So we come to America, and I say: 
‘Nanette, shall we go before the priest and 
marry? He not know.’ She say: ‘No, 
Jacques. That be worse: that be what you 
call sacrilege.’ So we go to church, but 
never to confession. And the priest he 
scold us for that when our little boy and 
girl they are born and we go for to haf 
them baptize. But we say not’ in’; what 
could we say? We haf plenty money; I 
own houses. My girl and boy ver’ good; 
they grow up; they make First Commun- 
ion; they good Cat’olics; they beg us to 
go to confession, but we can not. 

“If Nanette all happy I don’ know. I 
all happy; I not think about it any more. 
Sometimes, sure enough, I feel bad for 
them children; but I forget. One day the 
priest come for the mission. We go; he 
preach till my soul is troubled. He is 
French, too, like us. I go to him and tell 
him all. He say he will write to Nevers 
and fin’ out if Nanette’s husband is dead; 
if he not be dead, then if we will do right 


A STRANGE, SAD STORY. 


121 


we part. That was hard, hard, madame; 
but Nanette and me we pray, and we know 
not how we tell them children. The priest 
write; the man dead many years. Nanette 
and me we glad; we thank God. We go 
to confession; we feel happy. The chil- 
dren so glad. We don’ tell them; they 
needn’t know. We get married in private; 
all is right again. That priest say before 
he go; ‘You ready for crosses? For 
maybe God send you some now; I not 
wonder. You come back to Him, maybe 
He try you.’ 

“Nanette and me we stand still, we 
not speak. Some time Nanette say: ‘Yes, 
Father, we try to be ready. ’ Then I say so 
too. That priest he dead now; they say he 
saint and work miracle; he prophet too. 
His words come true. Our girl die first, 
our boy next; our houses burn, our cows 
die, our bank where we keep the money 
fall down. I work at my trade again; then 
I get rheumatism. Poor Nanette she haf 
such headache she lie in bed all day. 
This take years, then we be old.” 

“And were you resigned to all those 
crosses?” I asked, filled with compassion 
at his sad recital. 


122 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“Yes, madame, I think we be; for wehaf 
much cause to thank the good God. 
And we haf promise to bear well our 
crosses, like the Father tell us.” 

“And when you were obliged to 
come to the kittle Sisters?” 

‘ ‘Then we haf said the good God means 
this, that we come once more unite in 
heaven. I by her side when she die; I 
hold her hand; she tell me to come soon. 
You see, madame, as I haf said before, we 
haf not murder, we haf not stolen, but we 
haf done wrong; and it is well that God haf 
punish us here, maybe not in the hereafter. 
But I do not think, madame, that we haf 
done so wrong as some, especially Nanette, 
who was so young, such a child, and so 
frightened of that man. He was a ver’ 
bad man, madame; and I haf often fought 
Nanette’s father he had much sin to answer. 
But that is the way in France, — they marry 
so. And we would better think only of our 
own sins, each of his own. 

“And so I haf told you, madame, because 
you haf been kind, and because I would not 
like that you must think too bad of my 
Nanette, my poor Nanette!” 

As we sat there in the autumn sunshine, 


I I 


A STEANGE, SAD STORY. 123 

I made no comment on the strange, sad 
story; but spoke as best I might some few 
words of cheer and sympathy to the poor 
old soul, whose sins had been so humbly 
acknowledged, and I believe, in God’s 
boundless mercy, all forgiven. 

When the trees were putting forth their 
first tender leaves, they laid him to rest 
beside his dear Nanette in the old graveyard. 


X. 

THK STORY OF GIUSEPPE) POGHI. 

Pietro Rovi and Giuseppe Poghi, the 
only Italians at the Home, generally sat 
together in the men’s yard, in the after- 
noon, smoking and chatting, — that is to 
say, Rovi chatted and his friend listened; 
for he seemed a silent, morose man, to 
whom the world had been unkind, and who 
was only waiting for the great change 
which would, it was to be hoped, even all 
things for him. 

It came suddenly in the night. The 
day following, seeing Pietro alone in his 
accustomed place, I went out of my way 
a few steps to speak with him. 

“You are lonely, no doubt, without your 
friend, Pietro?” I said, taking a seat 
beside him. 

“Yes, a little,” was the response. “But 
I have known long time that he must soon 
die; and I have work too long alone in 
mines, in California, to care much for 

124 


THE STORY OF GIUSEPPE POGHI. 


125 


anybody, whether he is here or not. If 
I have only enough money to go back 
there, or if I am strong enough to walk 
back, and work part my way, I go there. 
But that can not be for me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How long have you been in this*part 
of the country ? ” I inquired. 

“Only five year. Three I am at the 
Tittle Sisters; and I like very much to be 
with them, if it is not for the climate, — 
so hot in summer, so cold in winter. In 
California now it is like in Italy, — hot days 
maybe, but not so hot as here, and in the 
nights always under a blanket; and the 
winter time there — oh, it is lovely! ” 

“Why did you come so far East at your 
time of life— you must be long past sixty?” 

“Pretty soon seventy year,” was the 
reply. “I came with fifty other foolish 
men. It was a railroad that would be 
build, with big wages. The man fooled 
us. We all give twenty-five dollar, and 
he run away when we get in Chicago. I 
don’t know how that is, — that railroad was 
really build, but he bring too much people. 
It was some kind of fraud. 

“Did Giuseppe come then? ” 

“No, ma’am: Giuseppe here in this 


126 CHRONICLES OP “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

house when I come. He much change, 
and at first deny; but I know his name. 
He not change that, nor his face all. 
He was bad man, that Giuseppe; but I 
feel sorry for him some, and I stay with 
him. You ever hear him talk ? ” 

“No, I never did.” 

“Well, he have gone to school much 
in the old country. His father have big 
factory for wax-candles at Bologna, his 
brother a priest. He have other brother 
once in this country; pretty rich man. He 
dead now too. Giuseppe run away to 
America. You like to hear about him ? I 
think he pretty sorry before he die.” 

“Yes, Pietro, if you wish to tell me,” 
I said, more from a desire to please the old 
man than anything else. 

“Well, you not in a hurry? I tell you. 
You see, Giacomo Poghi, the oldest one, I 
not know him very much, but he good man. 
He live in San Francisco; he keep hard- 
ware and miner’s goods. Very good man 
— not cheat never. Go always to church 
too, with his wife, and give much to the 
priest and the poor. Then Giuseppe he 
come; run away from his home; done some 
very bad act there. So his brother set him 


THE STORY OF GIUSEPPE POGHI. 


127 


Up in drug-store after a while, spend good 
deal money on that. Giuseppe he live in 
house with his brother, but not like his 
wife. So then they quarrel a little bit, and 
Giuseppe he take couple rooms behind his 
shop. I work in chop-house next door, 
and so I know him pretty well. Then he 
marry good woman. He get along pretty 
nice. They have three children. His 
brother come all time to see him, and 
never take back that money he lend him — 
he give it to him. After a while I go the 
mines. I stay there three year. When 
I come back I say: 

‘ ‘ * Where your brother now ? * 

“ T don’t know,’ he say. ‘He all broke 
up. He put his money in mining stocks, 
and burst up mines. He all broke. He 
go away from San Francisco with his wife. 
I believe he have some little ranch close to 
Tos Angeles. I don’t know about him.’ 

“ ‘You help him some when he burst 
up ? ’ I say to Giuseppe. 

“ ‘I got plenty to do when I take care 
of my own family,’ he say to me. ‘I not 
help him — he not ask me.’ 

“ ‘But he help you when you come first. 
You better not forget that,’ I say. 


128 CHRONICLES OF ‘‘THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“Then he get mad at me, and tell me 
to mind my own business, and I go away. 
I not like that kind of man. 

“Five, six year pass aw^ay. Giuseppe 
Poghi make his store bigger, and he get 
plenty money. Some time I come back, 
and work in that chop-house again. Some- 
times I see him. One time I go in his 
store for cigar. He reading a letter then. 
He say to me: 

“ ‘Pietro,’ he say, ‘this letter from my 
brother. I not hear from him for good 
while. His wife die three year ago. I not 
hear from him since. Now he write me 
he sick, and please come and see him.’ 

“ ‘You go?’ I say; but I think not from 
his face. 

“ ‘How I go?’ he say. ‘My wife not 
understand this business, no clerk can be 
trust. How I go ? ’ 

“ ‘Three or four days, that not much,’ 
I say. ‘You not lose much for three or 
four days.’ 

“ ‘No, I not go,’ he say. And I go 
away. 

‘ ‘ Two weeks maybe I come again in 
his shop, and he say: 

“ ‘1 get ’nother letter from my brother. 


THE STORY OP GIUSEPPE TOGHI. 


129 


He bother me all the time come see him 
before he die/ 

“I say: ‘You go this time? If I be in 
your place I would. Your brother good 
to you. He all alone; he like to see you 
before he die. Maybe he be poor.* 

“ ‘Course he be,’ Giuseppe say. ‘Want 
me to give him something, I know. ’ 

‘Then I say: ‘If he not ask you for 
anything, how you know ? That very 
nice, I think, in his place. You in good 
business, Mr. Poghi. You brother need 
you; you better go. ’ 

“He not say anything, and I go away 
again. It come maybe two weeks longer, 
and I go in his store again. He looV 
terrible bad. 

“‘What ail you, Mr. Poghi?’ I say. 
‘You sick, or something go wrong in your 
business? Or maybe your brother dead, 
and you feel sorry ? ’ 

“ ‘I think it terrible shame!’ he say. 
‘There ought to be some law against such 
things.’ 

“ ‘What things?’ I say. 

“ ‘Sit down, Pietro,’ he say, ‘and I tell 
you.’ (I think he like to talk to me, for 
I speak his own language; and when we 


130 CHRONICLES OF “tHE LITTLE SISTERS.’* 

in trouble we like to talk our own tongue. ) 
‘Sit down, Pietro,’ he say again. And I 
sit down. Then he tell me all: 

“ ‘Yesterday morning a strange priest 
he come in here, and ask for me. I come 
down. He very nice man. He come from 
Tos Angeles, and he know my brother. 
I say: “Father, I very glad to see you, 
and I sorry my brother sick; but I can 
do nothing for him, with my own family.” 
Then he say: “He ask you do anything 
for him?” I say: “No.” Then he say: 
“He send me here to tell you something; 
and now that I see you and hear you 
talk, I very glad to do it, though before I 
hate to. I come up here on trip, and I 
promise your brother that I tell you the 
message he send.” — “Very well,” I say; 
“tell it.” — “You know your brother pretty 
rich, eh?” the priest say. — “No,” I say; 
“I guess you mistaken, Father. Once he 
have plenty money, but he lose it all 
long ago.” — “I guess jyou mistaken,” the 
priest say; “he own forty-acre ranch near 
Tos Angeles. He buy it long ago for three 
hundred dollar. Four year ago he sell 
it in the boom for one hundred thousand. 
That pretty rich, eh?” — “I not know that. 


THE STORY OF GIUSEPPE POGHI. 


131 


Father,” I say. "‘Why he never tell me?” 
— '‘I don’t know,” the priest say. “That 
make no difference now. Tast week 
he send for me, and make his con- 
fession. Then he say to me: ‘Father, I 
have one brother in San Francisco. I long 
to see him — he my only friend in this 
country. I write to him several times, but 
he never answer me. At last, the other 
day, he write he can not come. Then I 
make up my mind. Father, in my house 
I have very good girl — servant girl. She 
go to Mass every morning; she keep my 
house well; she wash and cook for me nice 
and take good care for me since I be 
sick, — such good care as my dead wife 
would take for me if she be alive. Get 
license, and bring lawyer, and come marry 
me to Mary Doherty. First I marry her, 
then I make my will, and I leave most all 
my money to her.’ I ask to see the girl. 
First she say no, she ashamed; she very 
good girl. At last I tell her she foolish, 
and then she say yes. I bring lawyer, I 
get license, we go there, I marry your 
brother to that girl. He make his will, 
and tell me to tell you. He leave to your 
brother, who is a priest in Italy, ten thou- 


132 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

sand; he give me a nice little sum in my 
hand; he send something to the church, 
and five thousand to some orphan asylum; 
the rest he leave to his wife. I think your 
brother got maybe hundred and twenty- 
thousand, Mr. Poghi.” For a minute I 
can not speak. At last I say: “He dead, 
Father, — he dead yet?” He say: “No, 
not when I come; but I expect pretty soon 
he die.” 

“‘After that the priest go away; for I 
can not talk with him, — I nearly die. 
Now what you think, Pietro, my brother 
do me that way?’ 

“Then I say: ‘I think it serve you 
right, Mr. Poghi. I don’t know when I 
hear any news that please me so much. ’ 

‘ ‘ Then he go to strike me, but I go very 
quick out of his shop, and I not come back 
again. Pretty soon that story was print 
in the Chronicle, and everybody know it, 
and they all laugh at Giuseppe Poghi. But 
his brother not die for more than two year. 
He live in nice house in Los Angeles, with 
his wife; and have two big lots around, 
with flowers and lemon trees and oranges, 
and all kind nice vegetables in the back. ’ ’ 

“The man really got what he deserved , 


THE STORY OF GIUSEPPE POGHI. 


133 


Pietro,” I said. “But how did he arrive 
at such poverty as to be obliged to come 
here, to the Home?” 

“I tell you. Missus. After a while Giu- 
seppe Poghi he go to Mexico with his 
family. He most crazy when he find how 
rich his brother be. Some one tell him 
when he go to Guadalajara he get rich 
with drug store. But he not get rich there. 
Soon his wife die; then — he very bad man, 
very bad man. Missus — he run away with 
hotel-keeper’s wife. She young Mexican 
woman. She think he got plenty money. 
He take pretty near all he got, and come 
to United States again. He try to live 
in New Orleans, but he very poor soon. 
That woman she run away from him too, 
so he keep getting worse and worse. He 
drink, he get rheumatism, he work for 
cook on boats, he come up here at last. He 
sick in Marine Hospital. They turn him 
out when he better. He can’t work: he 
too feeble and sick and old. He got some- 
thing they call chronic, — I think, I don’t 
know just what. That good Italian priest 
over there at the Jesuit he see him, he get 
the Tittle Sisters to take him. That how 
he come here. God punish him, I think, 


f 


134 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

because he be so mean to his brother, and 
because he run away from his children. 
I not very sorry for Giuseppe Poghi, — not 
very sorry. But I sit with him; for he is 
only Italian here, and I know him long 
ago.” 

“And the poor children?” I said. “I 
suppose no one knows what became of 
them.” 

“I know all ’bout that,” said Pietro, a 
new ring in his voice. “That is a very 
good part; that make person glad again. 
When Giuseppe Poghi is gone away to 
Mexico, and his brother be dead, I work in 
mine little while with Mike Doherty. He 
very nice young Irishman. After a while 
he find his sister; she Mrs. Poghi, that 
married with Giacomo. She buy him nice 
little ranch near Dos Angeles. He bring out 
girl from Ireland and marry her. Some 
time I get tired working in mine, and I go 
to Dos Angeles and work on ranch near by. 
Then I see Mike Doherty again, and his 
sister, Mrs. Poghi. She very nice woman. 
I work in her garden, two, three times. 
She nice, pretty too, dressed up, and go 
with all fine people she want to. She fine 
woman. I tell you what she do. When 


THB STORY OF GIUSEPPE POGHI. 


135 


Giuseppe Poghi he run away from his 
children, his oldest girl — she very nice — 
write to Giacomo Poghi’s wife, and tell her 
if she will send them enough money to 
come back to California, they will work 
and pay her. What you think that woman 
do, Missus?” 

“No doubt she sent the money.” 

“I bet you. She send for them children, 
and take them in her own house. She 
dress them up, and next fall the boy he go 
to Santa Clara College, and the girls to 
San Jos6. Very fine schools. Missus; best 
in California. Then she go to Kurope 
with them children. The boy he study 
violin there; make fine player. The girls 
they travelling with their aunt when I hear 
of them. Maybe they married now. I 
guess so. She got plenty money. But 
Giuseppe he not know that till I tell him. 
Maybe he sorry he not behave better, so 
he got some money too. Maybe he glad 
his children not so poor as he. Anyhow, 
he not try to find them, or tell them where 
he be. Well, I hope he not stay long in 
purgatory — not too long, — but I be afraid. 
Act very bad.” 

And, with sundry solemn shakes of the 


136 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


head, Pietro prepared once more to light 
his pipe, which had gone out during the 
narrative. 


XI. 

THB FORTUNKS OF M. CROQUKI.AIRF. 

M. Croquelaire had been at the Old 
Men’s Home nearly ten years when the 
event occurred which made such a change 
in his destiny. “Jerome,” the Sisters 
called him; and with his intimates, when 
all were in a good humor, he was some- 
times “Croquelaire”; but in general he 
wished to be, and was, addressed as Mon- 
sieur Croquelaire. 

“M. J. Croquelaire,” he would say, — 
‘ ‘that is my name, no less a gentleman that 
I am force to become the charge of the 
good Sisters. By them, for whom I keep 
in order the flower-garden, it is right that 
I should be address by my baptismal name; 
but by people in general, not at all. If on 
occasion, through having heard so, much 
the good Sisters say ‘Jerome,’ Madame 
should now and then, either by preference 
or in absent mind, also address me in 
such manner, I should take it rather as 

187 


138 CHEONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

compliment. But for the others, no!” 

He had come to poverty through varied 
misfortunes and errors of his own, not 
the least of which had been the habit of 
drinking, to which he had at one time been 
addicted. But for many years he had 
touched nothing but wine, which to a 
Frenchman is seldom intoxicating. He 
was, like the rest of his countrymen, a 
lover of strong coffee; and once privately 
complained to me that the beverage as 
presented to the old people at the Home 
was not of the best quality. 

“Although how could one expect it,” 
he continued, apologetically, “when the 
greater part, if not all, of it is obtained 
from hotels, who give to the good Sisters 
every day the refuse, the dregs! Clean, 
Madame, and not at all to injure the health, 
but very, very weak. To me, Madame, 
a cup of good coffee is equal to soup, of 
which we have an excellent quality. On 
Sunday a week we had a strange priest 
to say Mass. As is my custom, or rather I 
should say my charge, I took him his coffee. 

“‘No, no!’ said he, with an Irish 
brogue very strong. ‘Bring me a cup of 
thi^ my good man. ’ 


THE FORTUNES OF M. CROQUELAIRE. 139 


“The Sister then hastened to prepare a 
cup of thi for him; and while I waited 
she said: 

“ ‘Jerome, drink the coffee yourself, and 
take with it a cracker. You will find one 
in the bin. ’ 

“The coffee I drank. It was excellent. 
They have for visitors and the clergy a 
fine quality, vous saves, as is but right. 
But a cracker! Mon Dieu, with such a 
mouthful I would not spoil my coffee. Un 
petit pain now, that would have been 
acceptable; but a cracker — oh, no, no! 
And those Irish, what a strange people! 
How they have such passion for thi! But 
again Madame will understand it is not of 
the good Sisters I complain.” 

Shortly after this he came to borrow a 
mowing machine, and I took advantage of 
the occasion to make him a cup of strong 
coffee. He pronounced it excellent and 
added: 

“But how could it be otherwise, made 
by the little hands of Madame herself, 
which I have often admired, as it is the 
privilege of all to have approbation of 
beauty where it exists? Again the excel- 
lent, superfine quality of Mocha, or per- 


140 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

haps Java and Mocha blend; the quick 
accomplishment; the drinking on the mo- 
ment; the rich, yellow cream, produced 
by the Jersey cow in that little field I can 
see through the window. (That cow, 
Madame, if Monsieur would sell, would 
bring any day one hundred dollar and 
twenty-five. ) The sparkle lumps of sugar; 
the large china cup with flowers thereon. 
(Does Madame paint? No? Well, they 
do such paint like that nowadays very well 
in the stores.) The beautiful shape and 
heavy quality silver spoon, — that all have 
much to do. Is it not so, Madame?” 

Finally he rose to go, but there seemed 
to be a reluctance in his manner. 

“Will you not take another cup, Mon- 
sieur? ’ ’ I asked (he had already disposed 
of two). But he quickly responded: 

“No, Madame. Thanks, thanks! I have 
had all sufficient. The cup it was very 
large, and the coffee most excellent, as I 
have said. I was only thinking — you will 
smile, Madame, — that in my country we 
are a frugal people. There is a custom, 
when one goes to take coffee in a restau- 
rant — not, of course, as now, in a private 
family where one is invited, but where one 


THE FORTUNES OP M. CROQUELAIRE. 141 


pays, — there is a custom, as I said, to take 
very simply the remaining lumps of sugar, 
if one has not UvSed all with the coffee, 
and put them in the pocket, for a bonne 
bouchCy or the bird at home, or even the 
little ones. It is understood, Madame, 
that one does so. It was merely a recollec- 
tion that came to me. ’ ’ 

I hastened to empty what was left of the 
sugar in his capacious pocket. The old 
man blushed, and faintly struggled as he 
said: 

“Thanks, thanks, Madame! But this 
is too much goodness of you. I beg you 
will not think that I was— what you call? 
— hinting for these sugar. But yes: I will 
not deny it. I have a sweet tooth. Ha! 
ha! I have but five altogether. To nibble 
at a lump of sugar is to me pleasant; and 
a little glass of eau sucre in the afternoons, 
that I like.” 

A sudden stroke of good fortune changed 
the aspects of life for the old Frenchman. 
One day news came that a legacy of twelve 
thousand francs was awaiting him; the 
bequest of a nephew in Paris, to whom 
he had once been kind, and to whom the 
approach of death had brought welcome. 


142 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLTE SISTERS.** 

if tardy, recognition of past benefactions. 
There was great rejoicing among the old 
people, with whom M. Croquelaire was a 
great favorite. I hastened to offer my 
congratulations. The old man bore his 
new honors modestly, yet with a certain 
dignity that comported well with his six- 
and-seventy years. After some slight con- 
versation, he looked at me in a half-quizzical, 
half-shamefaced manner, as he said: 

“Madame, perhaps you have not heard 
that I am about to leave the good Sisters 
and make my own home?’^ 

“But, Monsieur Croquelaire, you are so 
old, you will not be able to manage alone.” 
“Madame, it is to marry.** 

“At your age?” 

He drew himself up with dignity. 

“I am already promised.*’ 

“Oh, it is an old engagement, then!’* 

I replied, scarcely able to repress a smile. 

“No, Madame. Tast week I have said 
to the good Mother that I wish to speak 
with her. I have thank her for all her 
kindness to me, and I have said that no 
longer is it necessary I live on charity. 
This is for me not now the place. For 
three hundred dollar I will buy that small 


THE FORTUNES OF M. CROQUELAIRE. 143 


Cottage of Patrick Burns, who is now dead, 
and who have lease of ground for ten years 
still, at five dollar the year. Then I can 
grow my flowers and vegetable, and keep 
chicken and my cow, and it may be some 
pigs. When I have buy everything, and 
have furnish my house, new and clean, 
I have still left maybe nearly two thousand 
dollar. I divide in four-hundred-dollar 
parts. That last for five years, and on that 
I can live. After five years I die. I be 
eighty-one years old.” 

“But if you should not die, and your 
money should all be gone ? You know it is 
a rule with the Little Sisters not to receive 
again any one who has left them.” 

* ‘Sometime they break that rule,” said 
M. Croquelaire, with great confidence. 
“They have take back that cross Mr. 
Mahoney, who was here but two years, and 
grumble all the time. Now he is good 
and happy. They have take back James 
Smith, when he have been turn out on the 
street by his son because he have fall and 
break his leg, and can no longer carry the 
water for the road-makers. I have meself 
met on the street, very poor, that old 
woman who so much quarrel with the 


144 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


others. I know not how they call her, but 
she is dirty and have only one eye; and 
yesterday they have take her back, for I 
have seen her come down from an express 
with her feather-bed again. ’ ’ 

“But if they should not take you back, 
what then?” 

‘ ‘ Then I would go to another place, where 
they do not know me, and go into some 
other house of the good Sisters. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ They might ask whether you had ever 
been in any of their Homes before.” 

“Then I would say, making like very 
sad and angry: ‘O my good Sister, do you 
think that if once in the Home of the 
Old People, I would go out again?” 

“But that would be equivalent to a lie.” 
M. Croquelaire shrugged his shoulders 
in that expressive manner peculiar to a 
Frenchman, as he replied: 

‘ ‘Sometimes, Madame, it can not be help. ’ ’ 

I was silent. After a brief pause he 
resumed, and his face was very grave: 

“Madame, I must have some time of 
liberty again; some time to feel I am my 
own master, even if at the end I must 
go to the county — what you call ? — the 
poor-house. And I want some good 


THE FOETUNES OF M. CEOQUELAIRE. 145 


woman to make happy with me, and cook 
my meals and keep my house clean. I 
have promise of Jessamy Traber, and next 
Sunday we marry. ’ ’ 

My face bore witness to my surprise at 
this news. M. Croquelaire laughed. 

“Madame,” he said, “I see my news 
make you surprise. I have said to Sister 
Emilia I have choose two: the little Irish- 
woman so clean, so clean, who take care 
of flowers in the women’s garden with 
Jessamy Traber; that nice, quiet Helen, who 
always been old maid. But Sister Emilia 
will not ask for me. Then I have written 
letter to Helen, and good Mother she have 
read it to her; and Helen have been mad; 
she have cried. I have been sorry for that 
afterward. Yesterday I have asked Jes- 
samy herself when we ride in the wagon 
to the dentist, and she say ‘Yes’ right 
off. First good Mother have been a little 
mad, then she have laughed; but she say 
she never take us back again. To-night I 
leave; I buy everything and fix up my 
house. ’ ’ 

“And why not?” said Jessamy, in reply 
to my question as to whether the news was 
really true. “It seems to me that I am 


146 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

called. I have no prejudice against the 
French as a nation, nor against individuals; 
and for M. Croquelaire I have always 
entertained a most profound respect. He 
is, in every sense of the word, a gentleman. 
We are both, in a certain sense, superior to 
the class among which it has pleased a 
gracious Providence to have placed us, it 
may have been for the purpose of bringing 
us together as now contemplated. I have 
often been struck by the strong likeness 
which the profile of my future husband 
bears to that of the first Napoleon. My 
own resemblance to her gracious Majesty 
the Queen of England has been so often 
commented upon that it is superfluous to 
mention it. That in itself is a coincidence. 
I shall consider it a privilege to render his 
declining days more happy than they might 
otherwise be. I feel myself greatly honored 
by the preference of so exemplary and 
amiable a man. The good Mother was at 
first disposed to argue against the proposed 
union between myself and M. Croquelaire 
— or Jerome, as I shall call him hereafter. 
But she had no tenable grounds; and, angel 
that she is, so yielded gracefully. I have 
a box of excellent clothing stored at a 


THE FOETUNES OF M. CROQUELAIRE. 147 


commission house, with directions for dis- 
position after my death, should such occur 
suddenly. It was my intention to bequeath 
it to the lyittle Sisters. In the meantime 
I have taken occasion of visits to the city 
to take some necessary articles of wearing 
apparel therefrom, not wishing to be de- 
pendent upon the good Sisters for clothing 
as well as food and shelter. I shall now 
find it useful, and feel to a certain extent, 
as is becoming, independent of my future 
husband as to wedding garments, although 
not doubting his willingness to provide all 
things needful.” 

Who could gainsay her? 

They were married the following Sunday. 
The union lasted three years. Happy 
as two little children, they were constant 
visitors at the Home, to which they never 
came empty-handed. Their garden was 
the pride of the neighborhood, producing 
the finest vegetables in great abundance. 
Their wealthy neighbors paid fancy prices 
for the crisp radishes and early lettuce 
of M. Croquelaire; not to mention young 
onions, early peas, succulent string-beans, 
and tender asparagus, which M. Croquelaire 
was wont to describe as “a dream.” 


148 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE BISTERS.” 

They had quite a nice little income from 
the milk of their cow, and Jessamy’s 
chickens were always in demand. So well 
did they husband their resources that when 
M. Croquelaire died — with one hand in 
Jessamy’s, the other in that of the good 
Mother, from whom he had obtained a 
promise to receive his wife at the Home 
for the Aged whenever that dear woman 
wished, — the principal of the legacy, minus 
the original outlay, had been augmented by 
two hundred dollars. 

A year later Madame Croquelaire was 
stricken with inflammatory rheumatism, 
which carried her off after six months of 
intense but patient .suffering. She was 
forced to go, much against her will, to the 
Hospital of the Sisters of St. Francis, 
while her soul longed for her old home. 

When her will was opened, all accounts 
being settled, as provided for — viz., board, 
attendance, physician’s bills, and funeral 
expenses, not forgetting a sum set apart 
for Masses for herself and her husband, the 
Tittle Sisters of the Poor found themselves 
richer by a thousand dollars. 


XII. 

JESSAMY TRABER. 

Jessamy was a short, stout, red - faced 
little Englishwoman, who had come to the 
Home when her failing eyes would no 
longer permit her to continue the small 
infant school she had kept for many years. 
Her pupils seldom numbered more than 
ten, and it had long been a mystery to 
those who knew her how she had con- 
trived to live with so precarious an income. 
But Jessamy had seen better days. Her 
wardrobe was ample, and her resources for 
making both ends meet were almost inex- 
haustible. It was, moreover, no secret 
among the parents of the children who 
imbibed their first draughts of learning at 
her feet, that Mrs. Traber was not above 
receiving sundry gifts of tea, coffee, and 
sugar from those whom she knew to be her 
friends; not to speak of luxuries which as 
quietly found their way to her tiny corner 
cupboard. 


149 


150 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

When at last she felt herself obliged to 
give up teaching, her native independence 
revolted at becoming an inmate of a chari- 
table institution. But, the first step taken, 
she became reconciled, accepting the inevi- 
table with Christian resignation. Neither 
she nor the good Sisters who received her 
under their hospitable roof ever had reason 
to regret her coming. Always busy in house- 
hold tasks or attending to the garden 
there was no happier old woman at the 
Home than Jessamy Traber. 

She was an incessant talker, very proud 
of her English birth, and not a little ex- 
alted over the conviction she firmly held 
that she bore a strong resemblance to Queen 
Victoria. She was fond of repeating an 
anecdote on the subject, which every new 
acquaintance usually heard at the first in- 
terview. Allusion to this real or fancied 
resemblance more than once provoked the 
ire of certain among the patriotic and some- 
what touchy Irish companions of our equally 
loyal Englishwoman. It was on one of these 
occasions that I heard Jessamy’ s story, 
which I found so interesting that I have 
thought it worthy of repetition in these 
humble but faithful chronicles. 


JESSAMY TRABER. 


151 


As I passed into the women’s large and 
beautiful garden one feast-day afternoon, 
they were sitting about in groups, or walk- 
ing up and down the soft paths, covered 
with tan bark. I soon perceived that some- 
thing was amiss with a trio nearest me. 
Jessamy held her head aloft, her cheeks 
more flushed than usual, her lip trembling 
with scorn. In front of her, arm in arm, 
stood Katie Magevney, aged eighty-six 
and blind, and Bessie O’ Farrell, a cripple, 
bent nearly double with rheumatism; but 
at this moment she was waving her stick 
violently in the air, regardless of conse- 
quences. 

‘ ‘ Down with Victoria, and Ireland for- 
ever!” she shouted, with all the strength 
of her tremulous old voice. 

“More power to you, Bess, and three 
times three for the green!” quavered her 
blind companion, in tones still more feeble. 

“What is the trouble?” I asked, joining 
the excited group. 

“I did but relate an occurrence that took 
place in my youth at Richmond, near 
London,” Jessamy replied, “when these 
old ladies took offence at my few simple 
remarks. ’ ’ 


152 CHRONICLES OF “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


*‘’Twas that same old story of herself 
and Queen Victoria she was striving to tell 
us,” rejoined the blind woman; “and my- 
self and Bess here both said at once: ‘Sure 
we’re tired hearing that same old tale of 
Queen Victoria. Faith, that wouldn’t be a 
true Irishwoman whose blood wouldn’t boil 
at the mention of the name of that old 
skinflint.’ ” 

“And / said,” chimed in Bess, “that 
’twas well known she sent but a five-pound 
note over to Ireland in the famine of ’49. 
‘’Tis myself would have sent that back,’ 
says I. And with that Jessamy drew down 
.a, reflection on dynamiting. ‘ ’Tis too good 
for them, — that’s what it is,’ says I. ‘And 
what justice could Ireland expect from a 
Queen that gives her old Indian shawls as 
wedding presents to the nobility? My niece 
read the words on a paper the last time I 
was in town.’ ” 

“And I replied,” said Jessamy, speaking 
for the first time, slowly and with great 
dignity, “that, greatly as I admired the 
Irish people for their many virtues, ad- 
mitting that they had been wronged by 
the English as a nation, I could not but 
think that much of their ill-condition was 


.TESSAMY TRABER. 


153 


due to themselves; they are so inflammable 
and irascible — ” 

“’Twas that angered us entirely 
exclaimed Bess. “Sorra one of me knows 
the meaning of the words, but I’ll engage 
they’re no compliment.’* 

“ Jessamy darling,” said her companion, 
ironically, as the two hobbled off together, 
“you’re a good woman, but too well 
learned for the likes of us, thanks to the 
cruel English laws that left us trusting to 
the hedge-schoolmaster. ’ ’ 

With their passage Jessamy’ s usual 
good-humor instantly returned. 

‘ ‘ Poor creatures ! ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ They are 
old and ignorant. I should not let their 
momentary displeasure disturb me, — for it 
will be but momentary. When we meet 
at supper all will be serene. And while I 
can not help but be proud of my resem- 
blance to that gracious sovereign, devoted 
mother, and most exemplary woman in 
every relation of life, Victoria, Queen of 
England and Empress of India, as she now 
is by the grace of God, it was far from my 
thoughts to brew this tempest in a teapot. 
My husband was an Irishman. I bear no 
ill-will to the Irish, either as a nation or as 


154 CHRONICLES OF “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

individuals. It was through him indi- 
rectly, and more directly through a domes- 
tic whom I after vvard employed, that I first 
learned to appreciate the truths of Catho- 
licity. No one can more heartily admire 
the faith of the Irish people, kept pure and 
fervent under long- enduring and terrible 
persecutions. ’ ’ 

After I had expressed acquiescence in 
these sentiments, we remained for a time 
in silence. Jessamy’s eyes looked reminis- 
cent. Finally she said: 

“My story might perhaps be of interest 
to a thoughtful and religious person like 
yourself. It does not abound in startling 
incidents, but it is, in my opinion, a 
wonderful illustration of the providence 
of God, whose fostering care responds to 
every act of ours from the cradle to the 
grave. As a starting-point I will say (so 
that as I progress in my narrative you may 
be able to draw rational conclusions from 
my premises) that the motto of my whole 
life has been always to aim at the best and 
highest. My father was a maker and 
letterer of grave-stones in the town of 
Bristol. His workshop and yard were 
overlooked by the Dissenting chapel, which 


JESSAMY TRADER. 


155 


we attended. He was a severe man, but a 
good Christian, according to his lights. 
We were a large family — ten in number, 
all girls, — the poor man’s riches. For the 
sum of twenty pounds a year we were 
instructed in the necessary branches of 
education by a daily governess, a Miss 
Rachel Arlsbag Powler, a severe, strait- 
laced, but sincerely and truly virtuous 
woman; like my father and mother, a devout 
attendant of the Dissenting chapel. From 
her teachings I acquired a horror of all 
things pertaining to the Catholic religion. 
Poor woman ! I believe she was sincere in 
her belief that it was an institution of the 
devil. So she had been taught from her 
infancy. With bated breath I would hurry 
past the little Catholic chapel on the out- 
skirts of the town, in the neighborhood of 
which we resided. Meeting a priest, I 
would have looked for the cloven foot, had 
I not been afraid to pause in my flight. 
All this was sixty years ago and more. 
Since that time there has been a great 
revival of all things Catholic in England. 

‘ ‘ When I was twenty a young Irishman 
came to work with my father. Handsome 
as a picture was he, with a gay sparkle 


156 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

in his blue eye that did not well conform 
with the principles he professed — those of 
the most pronounced Methodism. He 
remained in the employ of my father five 
years. During that time we were married. 
After two years of happiness, my husband 
fell ill of lung trouble, contracted through 
having taken a severe cold, and the doctor 
pronounced the disease quick consumption. 
On hearing this, he turned his face to the 
wall, uttering loud groans. 

‘ ‘ ‘ There is no hope for me in this world 
or the next,’ he said. 

“Thinking this despondency and despair 
due to his feeble condition, I bade him not 
give up so utterly, but implored him to 
take heart, and appeal to Him who could 
cure both body and soul. Two days passed, 
during which he lay almost silent. You 
can imagine rny surprise when he said to 
me on the third morning: 

“ ‘Jessamy, I have been a hypocrite. I 
doubt whether there is pardon for me. I 
am a dying man, and wish to see a 
clergyman — ’ 

“ I interrupted him, saying: 

* ‘ ‘ My dear Patrick, I will send at once 
for the Rev. Jeremiah Swalls, to whose 


JES8AMY TRABER. 


157 


teachings you have so long lent a willing 
ear, and by whose preaching you have 
profited so well.’ 

“Patrick sat up in bed, holding out im- 
ploring hands. 

“ ‘Jessamy,’ he cried, ‘I want a priest, a 
priest, — a Catholic priest! I am a Catholic; 
and, if God can forgive me the damnable 
hypocrisy under which I have lived so long, 
a Catholic I wish to die.’ 

“ I thought him mad, and summoned my 
father. He also believed him to be raving. 
But my husband persisted in his assertion, 
till, filled with horror though I was, my 
wifely love and duty conquering all else, I 
ventured to say to him: 

“ ‘Patrick, a priest shall be called.’ 

“At this my father cried out: 

“ ‘Under my roof a Catholic priest shall 
never stand! Across my threshold that 
first-born of Satan shall not pass!’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis what I deserve, only what I 
deserve,’ said my husband. ‘A traitor and 
hypocrite I have lived, so should I be left 
to die.’ So saying he burst forth into 
weeping. 

“‘Father,’ I said, ‘will you not take 
back your words?’ 


158 CHRONICLES OF THE “LITTLE SISTERS.’* 

“‘Never, never, never!’ was the reply. 

“‘Then,’ said I, taking my husband’s 
hands in mine, dropping tears upon them as 
I spoke, ‘forth from your house we go this 
day. Somewhere we shall find cover and 
shelter. Deluded Patrick may be, but mad 
he is not. A priest he shall have, and I 
myself shall summon him.’ 

“‘Go — go at once!’ shouted my father, 
now furious. ‘And never again set foot 
within this house!’ 

‘ ‘ With that he rushed frantically down 
the stairs, and out to the street, where he 
strode up and down as one demented. 

‘ ‘After soothing my husband into a 
calmer mood, and meeting quietly all 
the arguments by which he now strove 
to dissuade me from my resolve to 
remove him where he could see a priest 
— which were as air to me, as he 
was my first thought, and that he 
should die in the faith that seemed to him 
best was my most earnest wish and pur- 
pose, — I went out into the town to seek 
a lodging. 

“As I hurried along, although agitated 
by the horror of learning that my husband 
was one of the pariahs whom I had been 


JESSAMY TRABER. 


159 


taught to hate, that horror was not the 
uppermost emotion in my troubled mind. 
No: it was the fear that he might die 
without having made what seemed to him 
to be reparation for his sin. I soon secured 
a lodging, and removed him that evening. 
Father, mother and sisters kept aloof from 
us, as though we were victims of a loath- 
some disease. I heard loud praying in the 
parlor as we descended the stairs. 

‘ ‘ As soon as I had settled my husband 
comfortably in our new abode, I went in 
search of a priest. My knees trembled 
when I accosted him, but the kind old man 
was not aware of it. He came next morn- 
ing, and every day for a month, until the 
end. So prejudiced against everything 
Catholic was I that I said to my husband 
before the first visit of the priest: 

“ ‘Patrick, in all which can help you to 
die in that way which you consider best 
I will do my utmost. But do not speak 
to me of aught that may pass between you 
the priest; for to my mind he is but an 
emissary of the Evil One.’ 

“My husband faithfully abstained from 
saying one word on the obnoxious subject. 
To this day I know not how or why he had 


160 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’* 

temporarily abandoned and denied the faith 
of his fathers. The priest came and went 
without a word from me save a curt saluta- 
tion. There was an Irish servant in the 
house, a maid-of- all- work — in other words, 
a slave. She it was who at the last made 
ready the Sacred Table for the holy Repast, 
the mention of which horrified and scan- 
dalized me. It was this alien and stranger 
that prepared Patrick for the reception of 
his Lord; while I, his wife, lay groaning 
on my face and hands in the adjoining 
chamber, dominated by the stubbornness 
and perverseness of the Evil One. When 
told by Mary McEHyott that all things 
necessary had been done — I mean as far 
as went the performance of priestly rites, 
I lay in wait for the Father at the foot of 
the stairs. 

“‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I thank you for your 
fidelity to what, I doubt not, seems to you 
to be your duty with regard to the spiritual 
needs of my husband. But, if all things 
requisite have been attended to, I beseech 
you come no more. Leave him to me in 
his last hours.’ 

“The good priest looked at me kindly 
as he answered: 


JESSAMY TRABEB. 


161 


‘“It shall be as you wish. God has 
been good to your husband, and He will 
reward you for the great sacrifice you have 
made. His blessing be upon you.* At 
these words a gentler feeling crept into my 
soul. It was the first working of God’s 
grace. 

“When Patrick died, which was the next 
day, the Irish slave and myself attended 
him to the grave. It was a very humble 
one, in the corner of the Catholic church- 
yard. My father sent me two hundred 
pounds, which, he wrote, was my rightful 
portion, and which I received as such. 
Neither relative nor friend came to visit 
me, though the Rev. Jeremiah S walls 
wrote me an angry and reproachful letter. 
Thus my heart was steeled against my own 
people, who had so lamentably failed in the 
Christian faith and charity of which they 
professed to be exponents and shining 
lights, and I went no more to chapel. 

“Not being able to bear the scorn and 
contumely following upon my changed 
fortune, I went up to I^ondon. There I 
opened a small school for young children. 
The landlady of the house, which was 
filled with lodgers, made miserable the 


162 CHRONICLES OF “tHE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

life of her servant, — this time an English 
girl, and, as I soon found, a Catholic. In 
that cheerless abode, her daily toil sufficient 
for three able-bodied women, her wages 
a pittance, the abuse of her mistress a 
martyrdom on earth, she led the life of a 
saint. There was a Catholic chapel around 
the corner. I soon learned that she went 
there at five o’clock every morning to Mass. 
Midnight seldom found her in bed, but 
never was dawn so bleak or cold that it did 
not see her keeping that sweet tryst with 
her God! Her sweetness, patience, and 
piety, I could not but admire. 

“One night I heard her mistress accusing 
her of going forth at the early morning 
hour for evil purposes, anathematizing all 
things Catholic as outcomes of deviltry. 
That night I lay long sleepless; for the 
occurrence had opened old wounds of my 
own. I arose in the early morning and 
followed Anastasia, determined to learn 
for myself what were the orgies held — 
according to my landlady, under the name 
of religion — every day at this most un- 
earthly hour. I saw a small, dingy build- 
ing, surmounted by a cross. I entered. 
All was dark inside, save that portion of 


JESSAMY TRABER. 


163 


the chapel within the radius of the two 
candles on the altar. Close to the sanctu- 
ary steps knelt a group of perhaps a dozen 
men and women. Three or four of the 
latter advanced to receive Holy Com- 
munion, among them Anastasia. As the 
priest approached the communicants, I 
recognized the old man who had visited 
my husband in Bristol. 

“Oh, say not that between this world 
and the other there is no connecting link, 
— that those who have gone before are not 
solicitous for the dear ones still left on 
earth to work out their salvation! This is 
what happened to me. At the moment 
I became aware of the identity of the 
priest I cried aloud: ‘Patrick, pray for 
mel’ And then inaudibly to myself: ‘lyord, 
help Thou my unbelief!’ I wanted nothing 
more: then and there I became a Catholic. 

“After Mass was over I went to the 
sacristy. There was no fear, no trembling, 
no hesitation, — naught but eagerness to 

learn. Books good Father T gave 

me, and instructions manifold; but all my 
doubts vanished from that hour. 

“Shortly after my baptism I came to 
America, accompanied by Anastasia, who 


164 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

lived in my service until she died, eight 
years ago. I will not weary you with the 
story of the privations that brought me 
where I am. But this much will I say: 
sorrow and sickness and anxieties and 
poverty have I known, but never have I 
been otherwise than resigned to them; for 
I have always been mindful of the great 
gifts vouchsafed me by Almighty God. To 
have been granted such favors as are known 
only to those who enjoy the blessing of 
living in the bosom of the Catholic Church 
makes toil a pleasure, poverty easy to bear, 
and even the bread of charity palatable 
and sweet.” 

*** 

During this recital the face of the old 
woman had undergone a complete change, 
becoming illumined, spiritualized I might 
say, by the revelation of the soul within. 
The ordinary somewhat gross redness of 
her cheeks had given way to a pallor which 
idealized her usually homely countenance; 
her eyes swam in a tender mistiness of un- 
shed tears. Truly, thought I, the saints 
are with us always in our daily paths, and 
we, unconscious, brush them by. 

We sat a few moments longer, in a sym- 


JE88AMY TRABER. 


165 


pathetic silence which both understood, 
and which I was loath to be the first to 
break. Finally, as if struck by a sudden 
thought, Jessamy came back to the hour 
and its realities once more. Putting her 
hand in the capacious pocket she always 
wore attached to her waist, she said: 

“Well, it was too bad that I should 
have unwittingly offended those two poor 
feeble creatures as I did. It is unwise — 
and I shall try in future to remember it — 
ever to touch on any subject relating to 
England or the royal family with a certain 
class of Irish. But I have a few pinches 
of excellent snuff in my pocket; and, ask- 
ing you to excuse me, I will take it to 
them. I trust my story has not wearied 
you, and that you at least will believe I 
bear no ill-will to a race who have been the 
missionaries of the world. ’ ’ 

With these words, and the desired per- 
mission, Jessamy trotted off to make her 
peace with the indignant twain. An hour 
later, as I entered the chapel for Benedic- 
tion, I saw them sitting side by side on 
the last bench, each devoutly saying her 
Rosary. 


XIII. 


THK STORY OF A CURSF. 

Mrs. Vaughan had been at the Home 
many years, although she was even now 
much 5^ounger than the majority of her 
companions. Rheumatism, that enemy of 
poverty and toil, had early crippled her 
hands and feet; and a kind benefactor of 
the kittle Sisters had sent her to them 
almost in spite of their protestations that a 
hospital for incurables was the proper place 
for one so afflicted. They had never 
regretted having received the good creature; 
for she had a sunshiny nature that diffused 
its cheerfulness over all with whom she 
came in contact. Among other pious cus- 
toms she had one of saying the Rosary every 
day for some intention of her own or others. 
So well was this known, and so great the 
confidence which existed in the efficacy of 
her prayers, that among the inmates, the 
kittle Sisters included, she often had her 

“intentions” bespoken days in advance 
166 


THE STORY OF A CURSE. 


167 


It was therefore in a gently rallying 
spirit that I remarked one evening after 
Benediction, as I took a seat beside her on 
the porch: 

“Well, Mrs. Vaughan, how is your 
rheumatism, and for whom are you saying 
your beads today?’ ^ 

“The rheumatism is the same as always, 
ma’am,’’ she said, “unpleasant company; 
but one can get used to that in time too, 
if one doesn’t be complaining and fretting. 
And as for the beads, I’m after finishing 
them for the soul of one who died this day 
ten years; though God in heaven grant 
he’s won there long before now. ’Tis a 
strange tale. I’ll never get over pondering 
on it while I live. You’d scarce be- 
lieve me if I’d tell it to you, ma’am.’’ 

“There is nothing you could tell me that 
I would not believe, Mrs. Vaughan,’’ I 
said, taking her hand in mine; “for I know 
nothing could induce you to relate that 
which you believed to be untrue.” 

“Thank you for that same, ma’am,” she 
replied, simply; adding after a moment of 
reflection: “Sure there’ll be no harm, as 
long as I don’t give names.” 

After having replaced her beads in her 


168 CHRONICLES OF THE “LITTLE SISTERS.” 

pocket, she drew from her bosom a little 
chamois case, and took from it a small 
silver cross, which she pressed to her lips. 

“Kiss that, ma’am,” she said. “ ’Tis 
a great relic — a bit of the True Cross, that 
my poor father prized above all he owned. 
It’s often I heard him tell of it; but I 
never saw it till it came into my hands ten 
years back, long after he was dead and 
buried.” 

I reverently kissed the relic, as I had no 
doubt of the accuracy of her assertion. 

“They talk of miracles,” she went on. 
“Some doubt them and some believe in 
them. What I’m going to say of the way 
that cross came back to me again is strange, 
if it isn’t a miracle. God had a hand in it, 
any way. I’d best begin in the middle of 
my story, ma’am, the better to explain it 
all to you. When I first came to the Tittle 
Sisters I wasn’t so bad at all as I am now, — 
not such a burthensome, awkward creature; 
yet bad enough, God knows. It’s often in 
those days the good Mother gave me leave 
to spend a Monday with an old friend in the 
West End, and I always went in the wagon 
— ’twas easier than the street-cars, — and 
they’d call for me in the evening after 


THE STORY OF A CURSE. 


169 


they’d made the rounds of collecting the 
cold victuals and coffee, and so on. One 
morning there sat a strange man beside 
Tom Tierney, who drove in those times. 
He was — the strange man, not Tom — of a 
strong build, with black, piercing eyes, and 
a long, grey beard. But after I’d looked 
at him a while I saw, from the trembling of 
his hands and the twitching of his lips, that 
he wasn’t as strong as he looked. He was 
seventy-five, any way. 

“‘You’re a newcomer,’ says I, after a 
bit, thinking to break the quiet; for, though 
Tom Tierney had enough talk in him, the 
stranger was very gloomy. 

“ ‘Yes,’ says he; then, civil enough, and 
looking at me very sharp: ‘And, by your 
speech, you’re a Cork woman.’ 

“‘I am,’ says I, ‘and proud of it, 
too.’ 

“With that he turned away his head, 
and hadn’t a word for a good while. Some- 
thing in his manner made me sure he was 
of good education, and I couldn’t bring 
myself to joke or make any more freedom. 
I disremember now how it came about, 
but Tom and I got talking of curses. I 
think ’twas Tom drew it down. He said 


170 CHRONICIiES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


he hadn’t any fear of any one’s curse; 
God didn’t mind those things at all. 

“‘Well,’ says I, just as I’m telling the 
tale to you now, ma’am, ‘I know a story 
of a curse that was the ruin of those it was 
called down on.’ 

“ ‘And who were they ?’ asked Tom. 

“My own father and my own family,’ 
says I. 

“The man on the front seat turned about 
— I mind it well, his eyes were so piercing, 
— and says he: 

“ ‘Who was your father, and where did 
he live?’ 

“‘His name was Terence Doherty, of 
the parish of , near Youghal.’ 

“‘Ah!’ says he, facing round again, 
and drawing in his lips for all the world as 
if he’d a mind to whistle, and then thought 
better of it. ’Twas the last word he spoke 
on the road — or as far as I went on it, 
anyhow. 

“ ‘Go on with your story,’ says Tom. 

“‘I will,’ says I. ‘And I’ll have you 
know, Tom, at the start, that there’s not 
an evil or a hard wish in my heart against 
the one that drew down that curse upon 
us; for, through poverty and exile, my 


THE STORY OF A CURSE. 


171 


father never so mucli as lifted an eyebrow 
in the way of revenge. He’d always be 
saying ’twas only a way God had of trying 
our souls to see would we win heaven, and 
maybe to punish his own hard-headedness 
in the trifle of a bit of land.’ 

“‘Oyeh! go on with your story,’ says 
Tom again. 

“ ‘Well, I will,’ says I; and with that I 
made a fresh start. 

“We were an old family in the place. 
Decent, respectable farmers were the 
Dohertys from all time that any one re- 
members. The parish priest was Father 
Neville, a great man of improvements, 
but not equal to a word of contradiction. 
My father had a bit of land adjoining the 
graveyard, and Father Neville took it into 
his head that it was needed, as the burying- 
ground was filling up very fast. He asked 
my father what would he give it for, and 
my father said he wouldn’t sell it. The 
priest got angry — he was a very hard man 
in his temper, as I told you before, — and 
then he said my father should let him have 
it, whether or no. They grew hot with 
each other, and the longer they talked the 
worse they got. So it went on, till there 


172 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’’ 

was two sides in the parish in regard of 
it, — one taking part with the priest, and 
the other with my father. Finally they 
met of a day on the road, and after some 
words the priest raised his stick. My 
father took it from him, broke it in two 
pieces, flung it into the field and walked 
away, the priest roaring after him. 

“That night my father was very quiet 
and lonesome in the house: my mother 
couldn’t get a word out of him. ‘ Terence,’ 
says she (I’ve often heard the both of them 
tell it), ‘if it’s in regard to the bit of 
meadow you’re fretting, give it to his 
Reverence. Sure it can bring us no luck 
to be opposing the anointed of God. ’ My 
father sat with his head in his hands, and 
made her no answer. The children were 
in bed, and all was quiet in the house at 
the time. Suddenly there came a knock at 
the door. My mother opened it, and who 
should be in it but Father Neville himself, 
and he raging mad! ‘Will you let me 
have the bit of land?’ says he. ‘ Say yes, 
or I’ll curse you and yours.’ — ‘I will not, 
your Reverence,’ says my father, straight- 
ening himself and standing up to him; 
‘thoag^h but a moment ago, before you 


THE STORY OF A CURSE. 


173 


came in, I was considering it. ’ Tis my 
own land, and I’ll keep it, curse or no 
curse. ’ 

“With that the priest walked over to 
the wall where the relic was always kept 
hanging up in a little bit of a glass box. 
He took down the box, opened it, and 
held up the relic cross in his hand. ‘ Who 
gave you this?’ he asked my father. — 
‘You know well, your Reverence,’ says 
he, ‘that my grandfather got it from the 
Bishop of Cork, who was a distant relative; 
and he got it from the Pope.’ — ‘So I’ve 
heard and so I believe,’ says the priest. 
‘Under this roof may it never rest again 
till you prove 3^ourself worthy to possess 
it.’ With these words he put it in his 
pocket and walked out of the house. But 
as he was closing the door he turned about, 
and says he : ‘ You’ll have crosses enough 

before you die without this one, — take my 
word for it. May you and your wife 
and your children be wanderers on the 
earth from this time forward ! ’ 

‘ ‘ I often wondered my father and mother 
let him take away the relic as they did; 
but they were very gentle, kindly-people, 
and wouldn’t lift a hand that way; 


174 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

especially as my father was sore and 
ashamed and surprised at himself concern- 
ing what had happened that afternoon on 
the roadside. Said my father once and he 
telling it to myself: ‘I misdoubted then, 
and I do still, was I indeed worthy to 
possess it. I misdoubted then, and will till 
I die, was I right or wrong in the stand I 
took against selling the bit of land; but, 
anyway, in those days I thought I was 
right. ’ 

“The trouble broke my mother’s heart. 
We couldn’t stay in the parish after that. 
Some called the priest a black-hearted 
man — God forgive them ! — and told my 
father to go to the Bishop, but he shook 
his head. He gave up the farm shortly — 
sold his lease, that is, — and, with the 
money from that and what he had in the 
bank, emigrated to America with seven 
of the children. He left two of us behind 
with the grandmother in Fermoy. I was 
a grown woman when I came out. Ill luck 
followed us all wherever we went, — ill 
luck and poverty and sickness, and mis- 
fortune and death. My father wouldn’t 
be long in any place, and he beginning 
to do well, but he’d grow restless, and 


THE STORY OF A CURSE. 


175 


pick up everything and make a new start. 
He thought himself ’twas the curse work- 
ing against him; but I’m inclined to 
believe ’twas the fear of the curse that 
made him unsettled in his mind, and 
always on the go. I’m thinking he blamed 
himself a good deal for what he had done. 
Whether he did as he should or made a 
mistake, he was a good Christian, and a 
kind, uncomplaining man till the day of 
his departure. ’ ’ 

Here I interrupted her by saying : 

‘ ‘ I must confess that my sympathies 
are altogether with your poor father. The 
land was his to keep or dispose of as he 
chose. It would have been a kind thing to 
have given it to the priest, or to have sold 
it to him; but I could never believe but 
that a malediction so unjust must have 
rested in some way on the one who con- 
ceived and uttered it. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Vaughan looked up quickly. 

“That part of it isn’t told yet, ma’am,” 
she said. “And that’s the strange part 
entirely. When I reached my journey’s 
end I got down from the wagon, and went 
in and spent the day with my friend. 
That evening and we coming home in the 


176 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

cool, the Strange man, sitting to the front 
as before, hadn’t a word out of him. 
When we came near home, and it quite 
dusky, he turned on me of a sudden, and 
says he, in a queer voice : 

“That was a sad story you told us this 
morning. Would you know that relic if 
you saw it?” 

“ ‘And how would I know it,’ says I, 
‘and I but a child in arms when ’ twas taken 
from my father?’ 

“‘What happened to that priest?’ he 
asked. ‘Did you ever hear?’ 

“‘No,’ says I. ‘But I hope to the 
•Almighty that nothing ontoward happened 
him.’ 

“ ‘If he’s not in hell, he deserves to be 
there this minute,’ said the strange man, 
in the same husky voice. 

‘“God forgive you, honest man,’ says 
myself, ‘for your hard judgment and mak- 
ing the blood to run cold in my veins! Are 
you an Irishman at all, and not to know 
the regard the Irish have for their priests, 
good or bad, fearing to go against them 
even in a just cause? And are you an 
Irishman at all, at all, not to have learned 
at your mother’s knee to forgive your 


THE STORY OF A CURSE. 


177 


enemies and pray for them every day of 
your life? 

‘ ‘ What did he do but lean over to me 
in the wagon, and says he : 

“ ‘You’re a good woman, a good woman; 
and well I know if that monster is living 
today, and will ever see the face of God, 
’tis through your prayers and those of your 
poor father and mother.’ 

“That’s as well as I can remember it, 
ma’am; for I was greatly frightened. 
After that not one of the three of us ever 
opened our lips till we got home. I’m a 
quiet woman, ma’am — and I believe I was 
still quieter then than I’m now, — and I 
never said a word to any one of what 
happened. But I watched that man in 
the chapel, and I noticed that he never 
went to the Sacraments. So I misgave 
that he mustn’t be a Catholic at all. 

“One day I was out sunning myself, and 
I saw him walking toward me, on the other 
side of the palings. He stopped before me. 

“‘You wouldn’t know that relic?’ says 
he, fierce like. 

“ ‘It’s a shame for you to make sport of 
me in so serious a matter,’ says I. ‘ It’s a 
queer man you are altogether. ’ 


178 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS/ 


‘“I know that/ says he; ‘but Tm not 
making sport of you. Trust me, you’ll 
have it yet, and it won’t be very long.’ 
And before I could say a word he walked 
away. I gave him up then for crazy out 
and out. Shortly after I missed him from 
the chapel two or three mornings. Maybe 
it was in a week’s time, not longer, that 
the good Mother called me one morning, 
and said she : 

“ ‘Mrs. Vaughan, did you ever know Mr. 
Blake before he came here? ’ 

“ ‘And who is he at all, good Mother!’ 

“ ‘You didn’t know him, then?’ says she, 
describing the strange man. 

“ ‘I never laid eyes on him till he went 
in with Tom Tierney and myself one day 
in the wagon. ’ 

“ ‘He’s dead,’ says she; ‘and he told me 
to give you this,’ — putting an envelope in 
my hand. ‘And he told me to tell you that 
it went about the world with him since ever 
he took it from the wall of your father’s 
house, forty years ago. Maybe you’ll know 
what that means. I do not.’ 

“I fell on my knees. ‘O good Mother, 
good Mother!’ says I. ‘Did he make his 
peace with God ? ’ 


THE STORY OP A CURSE. 


179 


‘He did,’ says she. ‘Father Brown was 
with him a long time both yesterday and the 
day before. He cried the whole night long. 
His death was most edifying. ’ 

‘ ‘ ‘Praise be to God and His Holy Mother 
for that!’ says I; ‘and may heaven be his 
portion soon 1 ’ 

“When I looked up she was wiping 
her eyes. ♦ 

‘ ‘ ‘ Did you have a suspicion he was ever 
a priest, good Mother ? ’ says I. 

“ ‘ I knew he was.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ And what was it drew him to this 
pass ? ’ says I. 

“ ‘ I think it was drink and his roving 
disposition and his own pride,’ says she. 

“And that’s how I got my relic of 
the True Cross, ma’am. Oh, but God is 
mindful of the sinner, no matter how deep 
and dark the sin I And what were my 
poor father’s troubles to his? — God be 
merciful to him ! ” 

“Amen !’’ I answered from the bottom 
of my heart, with a thrill of joy, not 
unmixed with pride, that in my veins 
also flowed some of that Irish blood which, 
running the world’s arteries up and down, 
is surely an element in its sanctification. 


XIV. 

AN OI.D man’s sorrow. 

He was a morose old man. Neither sun- 
shine nor holidays seemed to warm his 
spirits. He was accustomed to sit, silent 
and alone, in a corner he had appropriated 
to himself in the smoking-room, which came 
to be known among the other old men as 
“Doherty’s corner. ’ ’ Although I had often 
seen him with a rosary in his hand. Sister 
Emilia once told me he never approached 
the holy Sacraments. In spite of his grim 
reserve, I had always felt a great compassion 
for the poor old man; and, though he in- 
variably met my overtures with curt mono- 
syllables, I still persevered. Gradually his 
manner began to thaw, till one day as my 
little girl skipped before me down the path 
where he was slowly walking, I fancied he 
looked at her wistfully. The child also 
must have been attracted by something in 
his glance; for, pausing in front of him, 
she said, artlessly: 


ISO 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


181 


“Do you like little girls?” 

A smile flitted across his stern features, 
lighting them up in such a way as to change 
his whole expression; causing one to feel 
that the glow of love and kindliness had 
once had a lodgment there. I was still 
further surprised when he laid his wrinkled, 
toil-worn hand on her head, as he answered, 
with a tremor in his voice: 

“I did once, avoumeen; and there’s times 
when maybe I do still.” And, turning to 
me, he said, sadly and bitterly, as he 
stretched forth his large, knotted hands : 
“These worked hard, hard, ma’am, for 
many a year to make a lady of a girl like 
that.” Then, looking about him wildly, 
taking in with one wide, comprehensive 
sweep of his arms his whole surroundings, 
he added: “And here is where she left 
me!” 

With these words he passed on. My 
sympathies were very strongly roused. 
After that day I lost no opportunity of 
saying a few kindly words to the old man, 
and not without good effect. He would 
often unbend sufficiently to talk about the 
weather, the Irish Question — he was an 
ardent Home Ruler, — and to express his 


182 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

fears as to whether “the new Pope,” 
but just elected, “might not give in 
to them murdering Italians, — bad luck to 
the whole of them from Garibaldi down!” 
From this and similar remarks I knew that 
his was the strong faith characteristic of the 
Irish, albeit his heart had been warped and 
he had long neglected the practice of his 
religious duties. Therefore, I was not sur- 
prised one morning after a retreat which had 
been given to the old people by a fervent 
and gentle Jesuit Father, to meet him in his 
accustomed walk, with a new elasticity in 
his step, and a softer light in his steel- grey 
eyes. 

“Good-morning, ma’am!” he said, cheer- 
fully. “ ’Tis a pleasant day that’s in it.” 

“Very,” I said. “And you look un- 
usually cheerful this morning, Mr. 
Doherty. ’ ’ 

He leaned upon his stick, looked at me 
gravely, and said, with deliberation: 

“I went to confession the day before 
yesterday, ma’am, and I’m feeling the 
good of it yet, thanks and praise be to 
God!” 

“I am glad to hear that,” I replied. 
“Sometimes a little thing will keep one 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


183 


away; the longer one remains aloof, the 
harder it is to go, until one day the grace 
of God conquers, and all is right again.” 

” ’Twasn’t a little thing kept me away, 
^a’am,” he said, with a tightening of the 
lips which showed his heart was still very 
sore. “But when I think of the goodness 
of God in every way, and all He suffered 
for the like of me — a thing I long forgot in 
my anger, but which the good Father put 
into my mind again with his sermons, — I 
can bring myself to forgive — yes, and forget 
all, all!” 

A mighty sigh followed this speech; the 
hand that held the cane trembled violently. 
My heart ached for the poor man, burthened 
as he seemed to be with some great wrong 
or poignant sorrow. 

“Sit down on that bench behind you and 
rest,” I said; “and try not to think or speak 
about that which has caused you so much 
unhappiness. ’ ’ 

He sat down as I bade him, looking 
steadfastly up at me while he said: 

“Not to think about it, ma’am, would 
not be possible as long as I have my mind 
and memory left. But not to speak of it 
would be easy enough; for I’ve kept it 


184 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

in my heart so long and so close that it 
seems like digging a corpse from the grave 
to raise it. And yet I have a mind to tell 
it to you, ma’am; for you’ve always a 
kindly word for me, smiling whenever you 
pass, whether I’m in the dumps or no; and 
I say the truth this minute: I donU want 
you to have a worse opinion of me 
than I deserve.” ' 

Having assured him that I had never 
for a moment resented his unsociability, 
and expressed myself not only willing but 
anxious to hear the story, which I now 
felt, from his manner, it would relieve his 
oppressed soul to relate, I sat beside him 
on the garden bench and listened to the 
following tale. He said: 

“I was six and seventy years last 
Michaelmas. I’ve worked hard since I 
was a little lad, always at laboring work; 
but I never drank nor caroused, nor spent 
my earnings in any shameful way; so that 
when I married — which I didn’t till I was 
forty — I had a good bit laid by. My wife 
was as fine a woman as ever stepped, well 
learned and always fond of reading. Why 
she ever married the like of me is a wonder. 
There was no pretence of any foolish love- 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


185 


making between us; but we were a happy 
couple for all that. We never had but one 
child — a little girl, and she was a beauty. 
When Margaret died — that was my wife — 
the child was four years. ‘Darby,’ says 
Margaret, and she drawing her last breath, 
‘try and give Nellie a good education; 
She’s very clever, and ’twill be a fortune 
to her.’ — ‘I will,’ says I, ‘if God leaves me 
my hands to work for her till she’s able to 
do for herself.’ 

“I kept my word, ma’am. First I took 
her to the orphan asylum, paying her 
board regularly — nine dollars a month. 
The Sisters made a great pet of her, she 
was so bright and pretty. After a couple 
of years’ time I took a notion that it would 
be a fine thing to make a nun of her; I 
thought ’twould be such a safe place for 
her in the convent, and a grand vocation to 
be teaching the young ones after I was 
gone. And I knew well that while I’d 
miss her company, and the loss of her 
would be keen, she'd miss many a sorrow 
and trial in the world by it; and I had the 
sure thing of it then; I thought that the 
three of us would be united in heaven. So 
I took her from the asylum, and put her 


186 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

boarding with the Sisters of St. Dominic 

in C. , after telling them the plans I’d 

made in regard to my child. The superior 
told me it was better for me not to set my 
heart upon it; for unless they thought she 
had a true vocation, it would be impossible 
for them to take her as a novice when she 
was old enough; and that, above all things, 
she’d want to have the desire herself. Sure 
I knew that as well as the Mother could 
tell it to me; but I said I had great hopes 
in prayer, and there she agreed with me. 
And I’m bound to say right here, ma’am, 
that she made a great reduction in her 
prices, seeing that I was only a very poor 
man.” 

For a moment the old man was silent, 
shaking his head and sighing deeply. Then 
he resumed his narrative: 

‘‘Dear ma’am,” he said, “if I had ever 
an unworthy motive — such as wanting to 
make a fine lady of her; or, in the line 
of vanity, because she was so smart and 
pretty, striving to imitate those that 
were born to great advantages, — I 
could well understand the way and 
the why the good God scattered my 
plans and destroyed my hopes entirely. 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


187 


The thought of that, the wondering about 
it, has cost me many a sad and bitter hour. 
But from this on, with His help. I’ll take 
it as my cross and my way of salvation, as 
the good Father told me yesterday. Well, 
well, well, but it was strange, anyhow! 
Well, well! 

“Time passed. Nellie learned every- 
thing. She was so clever that the Sisters 
gave her music lessons and charged me 
nothing extra. She had the voice of a bird, 
though” — with a pathetic sigh — “I never 
heard her sing. ’Twas bashful I was to 
be going there, — that loath, ma’am, I left 
the town entirely, so that I’d have a good 
excuse for staying away. Maybe once in 
the year I’d go; and when I did, I took 
all the blame to myself and gave none to 
the child that she was growing cool to me 
and not caring much to talk to me nor very 
glad to see me when I did make my way to 
the place. ’Twas out about the shrubbery 
she’d always bring me, and once or twice 
I had a sick fear at my heart that she was 
ashamed of me. 

“’Twas after that I went out West, 
working on the new railroads a couple of 
years. I didn’t tell the nuns I was going. 


188 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


but I sent the money promptly, ma’am. 
Then I felt a great longing to go back and 
see my little girl. ’Twas a longing that 
wouldn’t be stilled, and I did go back. 
There was a great lot of people on the 
grounds the day I made my way to the 
convent, and I had half a mind to turn 
away till another time; but something 
made me keep on, through the path and 
up the steps. There was a new portress: 
she didn’t know me, but the superior came 
at once. She told me ’twas exhibition day, 
and she was glad I came; and I well re- 
member that she said though Nellie was 
doing fine in her studies, she had no hopes 
of her being a nun. I was sorry for that, 
but what I thought worse of was what she 
said after. ‘Mr. Doherty,’ says she, look- 
ing at me kind of sad like and speaking 
slowly, ‘sometimes I feel afraid you’ve 
made a mistake altogether. ’ 

“With that there came a tap at the door, 
and my little girl came in. She wasn’t a 
little girl any longer, but a tall slip of 
fourteen. Would you believe it, ma’am, 
I was that shy of her I scarce knew what 
to say? ’Twas of a pretty, proud flower 
she reminded me. Beautiful she was, but 


AN OLD man’s SORBOW. 


189 


there were two straight lines between her 
eyes that I didn’t like. One could scarce 
call them a frown, but it wasn’t pleasure 
nor joy that shone in her big black eyes 
that day. She was dressed in a white 
gown with flowing ribbons; she seemed 
very far entirely from her poor, plain father. 
The superior went away. As soon as the 
door closed behind her, Nellie caught me 
by the hand. 

“ ‘Come, father,’ she said, — ‘come out in 
the grounds at the edge of the woods; no 
one’ll see us, and they’re coming and going 
in the parlors all the time.’ 

“ ‘I will, Nellie,’ says I, taking my hat. 
‘But what if they should see us? Sure you 
are not ashamed of your poor father?’ 

“ ‘Nonsense!’ says she, and her tone was 
very cross entirely. She led me a quick 
dance till we got out of sight of the people 
walking about the garden and sitting in 
the summer-houses with their children. I 
sat down on the soft green grass under the 
trees, but Nellie stood; she said it would 
spoil her pretty, new white dress to sit on 
the ground. I tried to talk to her, but her 
head would constantly turn this way and 
that way. At last I said: 


190 CHEONICLES OF “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.** 

Nellie, my girl, am I keeping you 
from any friends, or interfering with your 
lessons in any way by stopping here ? ’ 
“‘We’ve no lessons today,’ says she;' 
‘and your not keeping me from any friends, 
father. But I think the bell will ring soon 
for us to march in rank to the exhibition 
room; and I don’t like to be too far away, 
for I’m in the first piano piece.’ 

“I’m very sorry I choose such an incon- 
venient day for coming,* says I. ‘Maybe 
I’d better be starting back now? ’ 

“‘Yes, father, do,’ says she, smiling for 
the first time. ‘Do, and return tomorrow. 
The girls’ll mostly be gone home, and I 
can have the whole day with you.’ 

“My heart smote me then for misjudging 
her as I had. ‘The child is worried,’ I 
thought, ‘for fear she’ll not be there in the 
room when she’s wanted.’ And says I: 

“ ‘I will come tomorrow, my girl, and 
we’ll have a jaunt to town for a day or so. 
But I believe I’ll go up to the play. 
Mother Superior asked me; she said ’twas 
a shame I never heard you! sing or play the 
piano. I believe I’ll go up along with you, 
and maybe they’ll give me a seat some- 
where. ’ 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


191 


Her cheeks flushed like two roses. 

“ ‘Father,’ says she — ‘father, I wouldn’t if 
I were you. I don’t think you’d under- 
stand or enjoy it.’ 

“ ‘Very well, then, my girl,’ says I, very 
quiet. ‘I’ll say good-bye till tomorrow 
morning. ’ 

“I put out my hand; she touched it 
merely. Then I turned about and left her. 
When I looked behind me she was flying 
through the trees; I could see her white 
dress between the green branches. Bad as 
I felt, I was loath to go; there was great 
peace and quiet in the. place, and I wanted 
time to think a bit. So I sat down under 
a big oak, and leaned my head on my 
knee. ’Twasn’t long till I heard voices, 
and one of them was Nellie’s. There was 
a young girl about her own age with her. 
Says she; 

“ ‘Where was it you lost your ring, 
Nellie?’ 

“ ‘Here, among the trees,’ says Nellie. 
‘ ’Twas only a few minutes ago.’ 

“ ‘Was that old man your father?’ asked 
the other one. ‘The girls were saying it 
was.’ 

“ 'My father!' cried Nellie, and I’ll never 


192 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

forget the scorn in her voice. ‘That man 
my father, — that common old Irishman!’ 

“I clinched my fists, and held my breath 
for fear they’d get a glimpse of me sitting 
under the tree; but they went on and on, 
and farther away, till I lost sight of them. 
I was wild with rage and sorrow, ma’am. 
To get out of the place was all I wanted 
now. I made for the train as fast 'as I 
could, and got on the road for Nevada next 
morning. ’Twas five long years before I 
heard tale or tidings of my girl again, or 
asked for them. And I did more evil in 
those five years than in all my life before. 
Ah! but it sends the cold chills through 
me this day, after confession and Holy 
Communion, to think how I flung myself 
away from God.” 

' The old man’s lips were dry, his voice 
trembled with fatigue and emotion. Fill- 
ing the cup at the well near by, I made 
him drink some of the clear, cold water, 
saying: 

“You must not tell me any more today, 
Mr. Doherty; you are tired and over- 
wrought. Some other time, when you feel 
equal to it, I shall be glad to hear the rest 
of the story, if there is any more to tell. ’ ’ 


AN OLD man’s SOBROW. 


193 


“Sure the worst part is to come,” he 
said, sadly. “But I’ll take your advice, 
ma’am. I am tired and worn out. But 
it’s strange that after keeping silent so 
long, I’m yearning to speak of it all. 
Father Brown said I’d feel the better for 
telling it to him, and ’tis a great relief, 
ma’am, to be going over it to yourself. But 
I’ll do your bidding and wait till a day 
next week maybe.” 

Entirely thawed from his cold and for- 
bidding demeanor, he accompanied us to 
the gate, leading the child by the hand. 
Eooking back as we walked up the road, 
I saw him gazing earnestly after us. 

When next I had occasion to go to the 
Little Sisters, I at once went in search of 
my old acquaintance but new friend, Mr. 
Doherty. I found him at last, with the 
others in the smoking-room; apparently 
more sociable than formerly, if one could 
judge by his aspect and the cheerful con- 
versation in which he seemed to be taking 
part. He arose when he saw me. 

“Was it me you were wanting, ma’am?” 
he inquired. 

“Yes,” I replied. “Shall we go into 
the garden ? ’ * 


194 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

He accompanied me with alacrity. 

“I’ve been thinking, ma’am,” he said, 
“what a strange thing it would be if 
you’d come across her some day. I’d 
leave it to yourself to tell her or no where 
you met me.” 

“Your daughter is living? ” I asked. 

“She is, ma’am,” he replied, — “or at 
least she was a while before I came here. 
Sure she’s a young woman still — not much 
above thirty.” 

“She does not know you are with the 
Little Sisters, then?” 

“No; nor would she care, unless it got 
abroad in some way to injure herself,” he 
said bitterly. “But I forgive her, — I 
forgive her now, and I feel the better for 
it. Sometimes the old , feeling comes back 
very strong, and then I say to myself over 
and over: ‘’725 my cross, ’Hs my cross, His 
my cross. ^ And I try to keep the view of 
Christ Crucified ever before me.” 

He spoke with great vehemence; it was 
evident from his earnestness that the 
sorrow which pervaded his life was indeed 
the most vital part of it.' I could not find 
any words in which to express my sym- 
pathy, therefore I remained silent. 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


195 


“ ’Twas in Nevada I left myself the other 
evening, wasn’t it?” he asked, quaintly. 
“Yes, yes: I remember. Well, from 
that I went here and there, earning good 
wages enough; but I was beginning to get 
old, and I had several hard spells of sick- 
ness. Sickness uses up a man’s money 
fast, ma’am. After five years or so I was 
steady as any man need be, but lonely, 
l6nely and lonesome always. ’Tisn’t worth 
while to relate where I knocked about to; 
but the years passed, and of a sudden a 
great longing came over me, and I made 
my way back again to the place where 
I’d left my little girl. I took great shame 
to myself, ma’am, to think how I had 
deserted her, and imposed on the good 
Sisters, leaving her to them altogether. 
I’ll not deny that I still had strong hopes 
of finding her a nun. I was so changed that 
the superior didn’t know me; and when 
I asked about Nellie, after telling my own 
story, she said: 

“‘I am sorry to say, Mr. Doherty, that 
Nellie proved as ungrateful to us as she 
did to her father. She ran away from the 
school the year after you were here.’ 

“For a long time they got no tidings 


196 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

of her; but finally they heard, from one of 
the old pupils, that she was working in a 
photograph gallery in St. Paul. But that 
was all they had heard in several years. 
I was sorely disappointed; but I went 
straight from there to St. Paul, thinking 
to find her, and hoping when I did that 
she’d be glad to see me. I worried greatly 
at this time; but, search where I might, 
I couldn’t find her. I’d stand outside the 
doors of the churches every Sunday till I’d 
made the rounds of all of them, hoping to 
see Nellie coming out from Mass; but all 
in vain. I had steady laboring work, and 
lodged with a respectable widow woman 
that kept a few boarders. I stopped three 
years in this place, but I could get no news 
of my girl, till one Sunda}’’ morning I was 
looking at some pictures in the newspaper. 

‘“Them are the beauties of Chicago,’ 
says Mrs. Ryan, peeping over my shoulder. 
‘Do you see that one?’ says she, pointing 
to a lovely-looking woman, barring her 
low-necked, scandalous gown. 

“ ‘Well, and what of her ? ’ says I. 

“ ‘She’s the wife of one of the richest 
men in Chicago,’ says Mrs. Ryan, ‘a leader 
in all the fashions; and a few years ago 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


197 


she was working in a photograph gallery 
in this very town.’ 

“I glanced at the picture again. It had 
a look of Nellie. 

“ ‘What was her name before she mar- 
ried?;’ says I. 

“ ‘The same as your own,’ says she. 
‘She was one Nellie Doherty in the begin- 
ning, till she left off going to church and 
joined the Protestants. Then she changed 
it to Eleanor Dorten.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘Are you sure of that ? ’ says I, my 
heart in my throat. 

“ ‘Am I sure? Well, I am that,’ says 
she; ‘for she had a fine voice, and sang in 
the choir in the church below till the sing- 
ing-master coaxed her away to the Episco- 
palians. ’Twas there she met the young 
man she married. His father had a great 
business in Chicago and another here, and 
the fellow had a terrible time making his 
people reconciled to the match. But now 
it’s all right, no doubt, from the way I 
read her name in the papers. ’ 

“ ‘Well, it’s no concern of ours, any 
way,’ says I, very quiet, not to be drawing 
down any suspicion on myself. And I 
said no more. 


198 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“After that I had no peace in my mind 
till I made my way to Chicago. ’Twas 
easy enough for me to find the place where 
my girl lived, but I hadn’t the courage to 
make myself known. ’Twas a fine house, 
ma’am, — a fine house, with a garden all 
round about it, and several men working 
among the trees and flowers at the time I 
went in it; for the spring was early that year, 
and they were putting the place in order. 
Well, I hovered round about, trying to 
catch a glimpse of the lady at a distance 
to know if it was Nellie. One day I was 
standing near the palings when the car- 
riage drew up, and what do you think I 
did, ma’am? Ran away as if I was a thief, 
for fear she’d see me and be ashamed, and 
I didn’t want to mortify or vex her at all, 
at all. My plan was to ring the bell some 
day, and ask for her at the front door; and 
after I’d spoken with her, and found out if 
all I’d heard about her leaving the Church 
was true, to give her a warning and go 
away. I had no thought of making myself 
known to her husband, or giving her any 
shame or annoyance in any way. But my 
heart hungered for a sight of her, and my 
conscience was very hard on me for desert- 


AN OLD man’s SOREOW. 


199 


ing her long ago. I felt sure that was the 
cause of her running away from the Sisters, 
and for what happened later. 

“The next day after what I told you, I 
went back to the place. One of the work- 
men asked me did I want a job. I told 
him I did, and he bade me come in. All 
that day I was hauling manure and putting 
the stable yard to rights. When evening 
came the gardener told me come back next 
morning. The master was there when I 
opened the gate, and a fine figure of a man 
he was. You may be sure I looked well at 
him. Along about noon-time I went back 
of the barn to eat my bit of lunch, when 
I heard a woman’s voice talking inside. It 
was Nellie’s voice, ma’am, and I grew cold 
all over. I peeped in through a crack. 
There she was talking to her husband — a 
grand-looking woman, carrying her head 
high like a lady born, dressed in a fine, 
long trailing gown; but the two lines in 
her forehead were deep as furrows. I 
didn’t like the looks of them. 

“I sat there a long time after they were 
gone. I think I fell asleep, though I was 
never sure. Any way, I jumped up of a 
sudden with the sound of a great clatter 


200 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

in my ears. What did I see coming down 
the drive but the carriage and pair, and 
the coachman not in it, only Nellie, and 
the reins dangling on the ground! The 
horses were running away. I ran in front 
of them, ma’am, and I stopped them too, 
though ’twas by a great effort. All the 
men came running. Nellie was crying and 
screaming, and they took her into the 
house. After that I went back to my 
work. ’Twasn’t long till a girl came out 
and said the lady wanted to see me. ‘ ’Tis 
the hand of God,’ says I to myself; and 
I followed her without a word. She took 
me into a fine large room, with pictures all 
about and a piano, and shut the door. I 
wasn’t fairly sitting down when my girl — 
grand lady that she was now — came from 
behind the velvet curtains in the middle 
of the two parlors. She came right over to 
where I was. I stood up, and says she: 

“ ‘My good man, I’m much obliged to 
you for what you did this afternoon. 
I might have been killed. Here’s five 
dollars for you, and mind you don’t spend 
it in drink.* 

‘ ‘I reeled with the dint of anger and sore 
disappointment. I couldn’t speak. 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


201 


“‘I’m almost afraid you’re drunk now,’ 
says she. 

“ ‘Woe! woe! woe!’ says I, throwing 
up my hands, ‘and do you hear her ? ’ 

“ ‘I think you are very drunk indeed, 
my poor man,’ says she again, this time 
stepping back. 

‘“O Nellie! Nellie! Nellie!’ I cried. 
‘My hair is white and my beard is grey and 
my shoulders are stooped with age and toil 
and sorrow, but is my voice so changed 
that you don’t know your poor old father? ’ 

“ With the first word she stepped farther 
back, her eyes glaring like a fury for one 
flash, and I saw that she knew me; then 
they turned cold as ice. 

“ ‘Poor fellow!’ says she, with her head 
thrown up like a queen, ‘you are crazy as 
well as drunk, I fear. Go out quietly 
now, and take your money, or I’ll be under 
the painful necessity of having you removed 
by force. ’ 

“ ‘O my girl!’ I cried, — ‘my own little 
girl! I’ll forgive you all, and I’ll go away 
and never bother you more, if you’ll only 
once say ^"Father!'' as you used long ago, 
when you were an innocent child. Your 
mother and the Blessed Mother of God are 


302 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


both looking down on you,’ says I. ‘Don’t 
deny your poor, broken-hearted father.’ 

“She made me no answer, but pulled 
the bell-rope that hung by the wall; and 
before I could say another word a big negro 
man stood forninst us. 

“ ‘James,’ says she, as cool as if she was 
ordering out the carriage, this poor creature 
seems demented and refuses to leave the 
house. Will you kindly assist him to go ? ’ 
“He put his hand on my shoulder; but 
I was a strong man still in those days, 
ma’am, and I shook him off. Says I: 

‘ ‘ ‘Dare to touch me, and 111 wipe up the 
carpet with you. As for you, ma’am, I 
wish you a long and a busy memory, and 
all the good luck you deserve. ’ 

“She only smiled down upon me and 
I turning to the door. 

“‘Poor man, poor man! says she, ‘ ’tis 
a pity you couldn’t be put in some place 
where you’d be well cared for. Take this 
money, — you may need it. ’ 

“I took it from between the three fingers 
she held out to me and flung it in her face. 
It struck her on the forehead — full in the 
two ugly lines that were grown so deep, 
and that must be a great disfigurement to 


AN OLD man’s sorrow. 


203 


her good looks by this; for they are the 
marks of a hard, ungrateful soul, and such 
marks work deeper and deeper as time goes 
on. And that’s how I saw her last, ma’am; 
and how I see her always, by day and by 
night, when I am thinking and brooding — 
with a round, red spot on her forehead and 
a cruel smile upon her lips. I flung myself 
out of the door, and I’ve been an old man 
from that day forth. I went through 
many hardships till I came to the lyittle 
Sisters; but I counted them all nothing to 
the bitterness of heart that was on me till 
now. Thanks be to God, the hardness 
has gone from me mostly; I’ll soon be 
going home, ma’am, — ^I’ll soon be going 
home. ’ ’ 

The old man’s head sunk upon his breast. 
I could not say a word, although my heart 
was aching for his pain. After a brief 
silence, he lifted his head and said: 

“But, O ma’am, and what can I say to 
the mother that left her to me as a holy 
trust? That’s what bothers and worries 
me entirely in these days. ’ ’ 

“God takes care of all these things,” 
I said. “I think you have been almost 
without blame in the sad business, Mr. 


204 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


Doherty. Yours has certainly been a very 
heavy cross.” 

“I don’t know, — I don’t know,” he 
answered, sadly. “I thought to tell you 
her name, ma’am; but when it came to the 
point, I thought better of it again. For 
when all is said, a father’s heart is always 
a father’s heart, and maybe it would be a 
small thing in me to make her known. 
You might be meeting her some day, 
ma’am — stranger things have happened, — 
and I wouldn’t like that it would be 
through myself you’d be despising her in 
your mind. God forgive me again, but 
there are times when, going over it all, I 
misdoubt but ’ tis some kind of a changeling 
she was, and not the pretty baby that I saw 
first lying on Margaret’s arm of a happy 
St. Patrick’s morning long ago.” 

My own feelings acquiesced with those 
of the old man. I was glad that he did 
not reveal the identity of his daughter. 
It is very unlikely that she will ever read 
these lines; but if she should, let her take 
the comfort which may arise from even a 
tardy repentance, in the knowledge that her 
poor old father died with her name upon 
his lips, forgiving and asking forgiveness. 


XV. 

A PKACK-BREAKKR. 

“And so you are back again, Peggy!” 
I said to a shrewd and shrewish-looking 
old woman, who sat sunning herself in the 
garden one balmy morning in spring. She 
w’as an untidy old creature also, — that is, 
as untidy as it is possible for one to be 
under the regime of the lyittle Sisters. 
Her cap was awry, her blue checked apron 
showed numerous wrinkles, and she had 
only one eye. She was not by any means 
an attractive-looking personage. It was for 
that reason perhaps, and because of a certain 
aversion I could not help feeling for her, 
that I went out of my way a few steps to 
address her kindly. That solitary eye was 
very expressive, however, and it twinkled 
sharply as she brought its focus to bear 
upon me. 

‘T am that, ma’am,” she answered; 
“and it’s to stay for good this time; for the 
good Mother tould me positive that wants 

205 


206 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


I left this agin she’d never take me in. 
’Tis partly on that account I’m outside this 
morning. I couldn’t stand the talk of thim 
Dutch inside. There should be a tax on 
such a language. Sure the ould boy him- 
self couldn’t make sinse of it. And that’s 
what I was going to tell thim this morning; 
but I bethought me of what the good 
Mother said, and came out here before I’d 
let me timper get the better of me. ’Tis 
a great failing, they tells me, ma’am; but 
sure it’s not wan half as bad as slandering or 
palavering, like some of thim do be doing. ’ ’ 
“But at your age, Peggy,” I ventured 
to remark, ‘ ‘one ought to be able to con- 
quer one’s temper a little. It would make 
life so much easier for you if you did. ’ ’ 

“I don’t want to conquer it, ma’am,” 
she replied. “I glories in it. ’Tis a fam- 
ily trait. The McCarthys were all high- 
timpered. ’Tisn’t wan of us ud be trampled 
on by anybody. Only the bit and the sup 
and the bed’s depending on it now, I’d let 
it loose on thim within this morning till 
they wouldn’t have a foot to stand on.” 

I saw that she was becoming excited, so 
thought it best to change the current of her 
observations. 


A PEACE-BREAKEB. 


207 


‘‘How lias it happened, Peggy,” I 
inquired, “that the lyittle Sisters have 
taken you back three times, when it is their 
rule never to readmit an old man or woman 
who voluntarily leaves them, or who has 
been expelled for bad conduct ? ’ ’ 

Peggy chuckled, at the same time 
darting another vivid glance from her 
glittering steel-gray eye. 

“The first time they tuk pity on me,” 
she replied. “The second time I fooled 
thim, and the third time I shamed thim 
into it.” 

“And how did you manage it all?” I 
asked; “for I know the good Mother is 
very firm.” 

“I was seventy the day I came in it 
first,” Peggy answered. “And it was all 
well enough for six months or so; for I’m 
a great hand at the knitting, and can turn 
me hand to many a little thing. I never 
do be sitting in corners groaning and moan- 
ing, like some of thim’ beyant. By the 
same token, I thought the good Mother 
should take me part agin thim rough Con- 
naught rangers and desateful Corkonians 
that do be cluttering up the Home, keeping 
dacent people out of it. But, being a 


208 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

Frinchwoman herself, or I believe a Belgic 
— pretty near the same, — she can never see 
the right of it, and cannon-balls wouldn’t 
move a muscle of her mouth to take sides 
in a quarrel. She’s a good craythur, but 
thim Belgics is very cool-blooded intirely. 
We can’t help our nature’s ma’am, — we’re 
as God made us. 

“Wan day we were in the midst of a 
great arguyment, three or four of us. 
Mary Malowney was pounding her stick on 
the floor, and meself just lifting a chair 
agin Ellen Dowd — she’s a Eenister woman, 
— when down came the good Mother (her 
room is just above the sewing-room), and 
says she: ‘What’s this, what’s this! 
Fighting and quarrelling so over yer coun- 
ties, and ye all of the same nation!’ Me 
blood was up. ‘Tipperary forever!’ I cried, 
waving the chair. By some accident — for 
me hoult’s not so firm as it was wanst — 
the leg of it grazed Ellen’s cap, and she 
roared out as if she was kilt. ‘Go, spiteful 
ould woman, — go to the chapel and ask 
God to give you a meek heart, ’ says the 
good Mother, turning to meself. ’Tis then 
I was angered at her, ma’am, for making 
an example of me that way, and I cried 


A PEACE-BREAKER. 


209 


out: ‘Yis, 1*11 go; and it’s not to the chapel 
but back to me crony, Mary Lyons, in the 
Minton Barracks, I’ll go. There I’ll drink 
me tay tonight.’ 

“I went. The good Mother didn’t 
oppose me. But I wasn’t there long till 
Mary began wid her ould crankiness, giv- 
ing me the manest bit of the bacon, and 
the tay was waker nor water. She’d be 
out working all the day, and I minding the 
fire for her and claning the place while 
she’d be gone. ’Tis a dacent bit and sup 
I was worthy of, any way. Well, Mary 
got sick on the top of it all, and the Sisters 
of Mercy tuk her away wid thim to the 
hospital; but there was no place for me 
there, as I hadn’t a pain nor an ache, only 
ould age. Father Masselis — God be good 
to him! — prevailed on the good Mother, 
and she tuk me back, ma’am.” 

“How long before you left for the second 
time ? ” I asked. 

‘‘I stayed in it a long year, ma’am. 
Then they tuk in a naygur, — not a very 
black wan, to be sure; and she was clane, 
very clane, in her clothes and her ways. 
But it angered me, and I couldn’t help but 
sneer at her. I never sat down at the 


210 CHRONICLES OF THE “LITTLE SISTERS.” 

table wid her but I thought of the disgrace 
of it. So wan day I had some words wid 
her, and the good Mother spoke very unjust 
to me; and that time I ran out the gate 
widout even me feather-bed. But I sent 
for that, and they let me have it, of 
coorse. Oh, but I had a weary time of it 
that spell! The ladies wouldn’t help me 
pay the rent. They all came to hear of it 
some way, and they said I did wrong to 
lave the Tittle Sisters. ’Twas hungry and 
cold I was, ma’am, when I thought of a 
plan. I got a lot of rags from the rag 
house and tuk thim to an empty room in 
Murphy’s Building. ’Twas empty all to 
a cot. I lay in wait for a little boy I knew 
outside of the parish school. He lived on 
the hill forninst us there. And I gev him 
me last penny to tell the Tittle Sisters an 
ould woman was dying of starvation in 
Murphy’s Building. I slept in the room 
that night, and next morning I didn’t rise, 
but kept under the pile of rags, widout 
wetting me mouth— for I had nothing to 
wet it wid, ma’am. When Sister Emilia 
came wid Sister Clara — she that does be 
minding the knitting, — I beseeched and 
implored thim to take me out of it, sick and 


A PEACE-BEEAKER. 


211 


sore as I was, and I’d never go agin thim 
more. At long last they did, ma’am. And 
I got me feather-bed from Mrs. O’Brien in 
the Building; for I tuk good care of that 
always, — that it wouldn’t be any the worse. 
Sure, ma’am, ’twas no harm pretending to 
be sick in a good cause. ’ ’ 

“And the third time, Peggy?” I asked, 
as she relapsed into silence. 

“’Twas this way, ma’am,” she replied. 
“Me timper got ahead of me, as it always 
does, in regard to a strange Father that 
said Mass at the Home wan morning. I 
was back that time for better nor two years, 
minding me own businOvSS and keeping to 
meself; for I find, ma’am, that when I’m 
not widin earshot of their foolish talking 
and sickening boasting, and drawing down 
the splendor of their grandfathers’ farms, 
and the like, that I’ve no trouble at all in 
the way of being peaceable and contented. 
But this Father was of some sort of hay then 
appearance, and a man along wid him like 
himself; and they both chanting out the 
Mass in an outlandish way, and long beards 
on the two of thim. I made bould to tell 
the good Mother that I didn’t know what 
the diocese was coming to when the Arch- 


212 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

bishop gev lave to the likes of thim to go 
about saying Mass; and I wasn’t slow to 
tell her either that I didn’t believe the man 
was a priest at all. Wid that the ould 
women cried at me and made shame of me 
for being so bould, and that vexed me and 
drew down a quarrel. The good Mother 
said I was a disturber, and that hurt me; 
for I call a disturber a tale-bearer, and 
that’s what I never was in me life. So I 
packed me little bag and tuk me feather- 
bed agin, and went down by the cable cars 
to the Home of the Friendless. But they 
weren’t very friendly to me, I can tell ye. 
They tould me that by me speech I belonged 
to the Little Sisters, for that’s where all 
the ould Irish Catholic women belonged. 
That set me crazy, they were so contempt- 
uous; and I tould thim what I thought of 
thim. There was a thread-and-needle store 
near by; and the woman, though she was 
a foreigner of some kind, had an Irish 
heart, and she tuk me in for the night. 

“The next day after that I went to a 
cousin of my husband’s — a widow woman 
she was, — and she didn’t give me much 
welcome. She’s from Connemara, ma’am, 
and they’re very close people. I slept in 


A PEACE-BREAKER. 


213 


the shed there, and made what kept me 
in food by knitting stockings for better 
than three months. She went out washing 
by the day, and I tidied up the place for 
her whilst she was gone. She wasn’t so 
bad herself, barring the stinginess. But 
she had a beau; and when I gev her an 
advice agin making a second marriage, she 
got angry and sint me about me business. 
Thim Connemara people are quare, any- 
how. After that ’twas aither the I^ittle 
Sisters or the county-house; and in that 
place, ma’am, I wouldn’t get Mass but 
wanst or twice a year, and confession maybe 
if I was dying, and maybe not. Me heart 
warmed to the I<ittle Sisters, ma’am; so 
I tuk me feather-bed and me bundle, and 
I hired an express and came up. After I 
paid the express man I had twenty-five 
cents in the corner of me handkerchief, and 
that was every red copper I had in the 
wide world. 

“I rang the bell, and the good Mother 
came when I axed for her; but let me back 
she would not. I begged and pleaded, and 
after a while I scolded; but nothing would 
move her. So I settled the cot in front of 
the door, and sat down upon it till the 


214 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

dusk of the evening fell. There’s great 
travel on the road ma’am — you know it 
yourself, — and in the mornings and even- 
ings rich gentlemen passing by in their 
carriages, and ladies too. And some of 
thim is great benefactors to the Home. I 
thought to shame her before thim, but I 
didn’t — that night at laste. They thrust 
out a bite to me, and tould me go away. 
But I wrapped meself up in me blankets 
and lay down on the top of me feather-bed, 
ma’am, and was none the worse in the 
morning. The good Mother said she’d 
send for a policeman, but I dared her to do 
it. I said all the papers would be full of 
it, especially now that the election was 
coming on, and thim A. P. A.’s to the fore. 
She was very mild, ma’am — I wouldn’t 
belie her, and I never saw her lose her 
timper before nor since, — but she did slam 
the door on me that morning. There I 
stayed all day, and the teamsters and 
coal-drivers and farmers questioning me; 
but I tould thim I was there for the good 
of me health, and they were none the wiser, 
for all I threatened the good Mother. Oh, 
but I was glad, ma’am, when I saw the 
clouds gathering and heard the wind rising 


A PEACE-BREAKER. 


215 


as the second night fell! ’Twasn’t long till 
the big rain came, and ’twas the good 
Mother herself came out for me, and tould 
Mike Carney carry in me bed and bedding, 
— that she’d let me stay the night. Sure 
I was all right then, and I knew it. And 
that’s the whole story, ma’am.” 

“You have reason to be grateful, Peggy,” 
I said. “I hope you are contented now, 
and resolved to remain here for the rest of 
your days.” 

“I’m back for good, ma’am,” she 
replied, with an emphatic nod of the head. 
“But thim Dutch tries me greatly wid their 
outlandish talk. They should have a place 
by thimselves. When I was here first 
there wasn’t a handful of thim, but the 
place is going down wid the crowds of thim 
that’s in it. And — whisper, ma’am, — 
there’s another naygur now, and two in the 
men’s building. ’Tis a shame, so it is!” 

Six months later I happened to pass 
Peggy McCarthy on the street. I did not 
notice her until she accosted me. 

“I riz out of the Tittle Sisters intirely, 
ma’am,” she said. “I had words one day 
wid an ould Belgic man across the fence 
of the men’s yard; and the good Mother 


216 CHRONICLES OF ‘‘THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

tuk his part. Sure there’s no room in it at 
all now for a dacent, paceful woman. ’Tis 
filled with Dutch and Eyetalians, and they 
tuk in a Greek the day before I left it. 
I’m getting a dollar a month now from two 
Protestant ladies that have a heart for the 
poor. That pays me rent; and I have 
many a scrap from the cooks that live in 
the big houses, — all I can ate, anyway.” 

Tifting the cover of a small basket she 
carried on her arm, she showed a most 
unappetizing mixture of victuals, on which, 
judging from the expression of her peculiar 
looking eye, she set great value. 

‘‘Hm! the Little Sisters!” she muttered, 
as I passed on. ‘T can get on well widout 
thim.” 

*** 

Once in a while — perhaps I should more 
correctly say, not seldom — the patience of 
the Little Sisters is sorely tried by such 
cases as that of Peggy McCarthy. But in 
the docility and gratitude of the large 
majority of those whom they shelter they 
have their earthly compensations. 


XVI. 

A HKART history. 

He had so long been called ‘ ‘ Martin 
lyUther” by the old men that when, after 
several years of residence at the Home he 
became a fervent Catholic, the name still 
clung to him, and he answered to it as 
readily as to that of “ Schulenberg, ^ ’ his 
rightful patronymic. It had been his proud 
boast at one time, and probably he was 
not wrong in his assertion that his ancestors 
had been among the first to cast in their 
lots with the Reformers ; indeed, the name 
Schulenberg would indicate as much. He 
was too truly a gentleman to insult the 
hand that gave him bread ; but his fondness 
for singing old lyUthern hymns, and the 
tenacity with which he clung to his ancient 
black-letter Bible, together with the out- 
spoken though unaggressive manner in 
which he constantly lauded his hero, had 
been evidence of how thoroughly the heart 

and soul were identified with that bluster- 
217 


218 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

ing Goliath and arch- Philistine of the 
sixteenth century. 

He was a gentle, refined, delicate- 
featured old man. He had been a musical- 
instrument maker in his native country, 
from which some great sorrow or misfort- 
une had driven him years ago. He was 
very reticent about himself and that past 
which lay behind him in his native land. 
His conversion to the faith had been sudden 
smd unexpected. A young German Jesuit 
had noticed and spoken with him. I^ittle 
by little the old man had opened his heart 
to his new friend: the tie of country is as 
strong, perhaps stronger than that of blood. 
The priest gave him books to read, met 
his doubts and difficulties with clear and 
irrefutable answers and explanations, and 
in three months after their first meeting 
* ‘ Martin Tuther ’ ’ was received into the 
Church. 

Shortly after he became a Catholic his 
health began to fail, and his sojourns in 
the infirmary became frequent, and of 
longer duration at each enforced visit. 
One day as I sat with Sister Emilia on the 
upper piazza, watching her darn stockings 
— for her hands were never idle, — the old 


A HEART HISTORY. 


219 


man came slowly out from the infirmary 
and seated himself on the opposite side 
of the doorway, in the sun. 

“ I t’ink I soon be gone,” he said, quite 
cheerfully. “Always I feel more and more 
bad, dese days. But before dat I haf some 
little t’ings to tell. It is good dat I say 
dem. I t’ink I must do dat. It may be 
some good to some one. Often I feel like 
I will say to de good Mother or Sister 
Kmilia dese t’ oughts, but I get nefer no 
chance. Just now it is good, I t’ink — 
nobody here.” 

I arose to go away. 

“Oh, no!” he said. “ If I haf wanted 
you to not hear I haf not come out now. 
Dat would not haf been polite. I haf 
heard you and Sister Emilia talk when I 
am inside about Eourdes — de miracles. 
Well, dat is true, I believe; but also are 
dere oder miracles just as great, and dat 
I can myself tell. I t’ink it is of glory to 
Gott dat I tell. Shall you hear? ” 

Having expressed our willingness, the 
old man continued: 

“ I am in Wiirtemburg born. My fader 
and grandfader and great-grandfader haf 
been in de same business: we haf made 


220 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

musical instruments. All our family and 
de family of my wife haf been lyutheran 
from de first. I haf three sons and only 
one daughter, Hilda. She haf been 
brought up very strict; but we haf lofed 
her, and she haf lofed us — her moder and 
fader and broders — very much. She was 
pretty and good, and so defer that when 
once de aunt of de mayor haf come to 
Wiirtemburg, she haf so liked Hilda dat 
she haf begged me to let her go to Vienna, 
very far, for a companion to her. I not 
like dat much; but times not so good, and 
my two sons marry, so I t’ink and my wife 
t^ink we let her go; but only for one or two 
year, and dat make perhaps a good dowry 
for her when she marry. I do not know 
dat rich frau Cat’olic. How can I, when 
in Wiirtemburg all her relations I^utheran? 

“Well, Hilda goes away. One year 
passes, nearly anoder half, and my wife 
die suddenly. Den I can not do mitout 
my girl, and I send for her to come home. 
She is just as pretty and good and modest 
as when she go away, if anyt’ing nicer. 
She haf much griefed for her moder, 
and it haf soften my own sorrow to see 
her once more. T’ree days pass; Sunday 


A HEART HISTORY. 


221 


haf come, and in de morning early I haf 
heard de door of de shop open and some 
one go out. When I come down de coffee 
is ready, and Hilda is mit her street gown 
on. 

“‘You haf been out so early?’ Isay. 

‘ What has gone wrong? ’ 

“Den she grow very red in de face and 
she say: 

‘ ‘ ‘ Fader, I haf been to Mass. For a 
year now I am a Cat’olic.’ 

“ Down I fell into my chair. I look at 
de other side of de table, where her moder 
used to sit, and I say: 

“‘Mein Gott, why haf I been so dis- 
graced? But good it is dat de moder is 
is not here to see. ’ 

“Den I make her tell me. It is dat 
lady who is a Cat’olic. She, too, haf been 
Lutheran. She haf books, my girl haf 
read dem, and so it come. I do not know 
myself any more. I scold my Hilda, I 
scold at de priests — de rogues of priests I 
call dem — dat haf make her deceive her 
fader. But she say: 

“ ‘Fader, in dat I haf been wrong. Dey 
haf tell me not to do it mitout first telling 
you and my moder; but I haf been afraid. 


222 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


But now I am no more afraid. Cat’olic 
I am, and Cat’olic will I be forefer. I will 
give you books, ^ she say. 

‘ ‘ But I do not let her speak any more. 

“‘Books!’ I say. ‘I will t’row dem 
out of mein house. Books! I will bring 
books to you dat you may read.’ And I 
go to de chest and I bring dem. ‘ Here, ’ 
I say; ‘read for a week. I gif you a week, 
and I say not’ing even to your broders.’ 

“But she say: 

“‘Bader, dem books haf I read long 
ago, and dat is why I read de others when 
I go to Vienna; for I t’ink it must be some 
evil mind dat haf written dem against de 
Cat’olics. Dey can not be so bad. Dem 
books I t’ank dat I am Cat’olic today.’ 

“Not much breakfast we eat dat Sunday. 
Alone I go to church. De boys and de old 
friends ask where is Hilda. But I say she 
is sad for her moder; she is not well. 
After dinner come de broders and deir wifes. 
Den de bad news is told, — I can not keep 
it. We beg, we plead, we scold, we cry. 
It is of no use: she is like of marble. But 
when we finish she cry, and say she lofe us 
all just de same — better, — and please let 
her be in her own pelief. Den she say 


A HEART HISTORY. 


223 


dat is not all. She will marry a young 
man. He is coming; he is a wood-carver; 
he is, too, a Cafolic. Even while she is 
speaking comes a knock at de door. It is 
he — de man she will marry. Right into 
dat angry family he come, and you will 
know how he is receive. Quick I send 
him away; den de broders go and deir 
wifes, and I am alone mit Hilda. 

‘“One week,’ Isay to her, — ‘one week 
I gif you to lif in mein house, and to make 
up your mind to let dat young man go. 
After dat, unless you do as I say, you 
go too. And nefer, nefer, shall you again 
come in de house you haf disgraced.’ 

“‘Fader! fader!’ she say, and she fall 
on her knees. 

“ ‘ Yes,' I say, ‘I mean it.’ 

“ ‘ O my good, kind fader, dat is always 
so just and so fond of me! I can not pelieve 
he mean so hard. ’ 

“But I go away and I say not’ing. 

“Dat was a long week, but I fought I 
was doing right. When it come to an 
end I say: 

“‘Well, Hilda?’ 

“Den she say: 

“‘Fader, I must follow iny conscience. 


224 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’’ 

Otto I will gif Up for your sake, dat you 
will not be all alone, now dat my moder 
is gone. But my religion — dat I must 
keep.’ 

“Den de devil he took hold of me mit 
all his might, and I say: 

“‘Go! go dis hour mit your Otto, and 
nefer, nefer, nefer let me see your face 
again 1 ’ 

‘ ‘ Once more she fall down on her knees, 
and de tears stream from her eyes, and 
she beg me and beg me not to send her 
away. But I am as hard as de rock. Den 
she go, and when she is shutting de door 
she look back and say: 

“‘O fader! please only one kind word.’ 

“Den I say: 

“ ‘Go out of mein house, and I hope by 
de Gott of my faders dat I nefer look 
upon your face again.’ ” 

The old man paused, tears were stream- 
ing down his pale cheeks. 

“Ach! ach!” he continued, as he wiped 
them away with his great blue handker- 
chief, ‘ ‘ nefer haf I looked since dat time 
upon the face of my Hilda; but always 
is it before mein eyes, — sleeping and wak- 
ing I see her as on dat terrible day. Let- 


A HEART HISTORY. 


225 


ters she haf written from Vienna, where 
she went mit her husband; but dem I haf 
nefer answered. At last I haf sent dem 
all back to her and I haf written: ‘ Do not 
write any more to me. I am not your 
fader: I haf no daughter.’ Since dat time 
I haf not heard.” 

“How long ago was that? ” I asked. 

“Twenty years,” he replied, — “twenty 
long, sad, lonely years. Soon I was punish 
for all dat,” he continued. “My boys do 
not right. I haf been a little paralyze and 
can not do such good work. My boys haf 
cheated me, and deir wifes haf said I am 
not much help any more. My youngest 
son he wish much to come to America. I 
come along, mit some little money. He 
die on de sea. Here am I all alone; my 
money soon gone. Once more I am a little 
paralyze. I lie in de hospital. When I 
get better I hear of dis Home. I t’ink it 
not Cat’olic, — I t’ink not’ing much of dat. 
I am ashamed to come when I t’ink of 
what I haf done; but de good Mother she 
kind and take me in. I like de Sisters, but 
I stick to my religion till Fader Helsch 
come. Den he make me Cat’olic. But 
one t’ing I forget. My Hilda write once: 


226 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


“‘You can say, you can do what you 
like, mein fader; but I lofe you and I pray 
for you all de same. I am always your 
child, and my little girls dey pray always 
for you. Dey t’ ink you lofe dem.’ 

“Now, I.t’ink why I come to de Little 
Sisters. Gott hear dat prayer, if I do not 
deserve it, and bring me here to be a good 
man and die good. Maybe my daughter 
lif, maybe she die; but I t’ink dat a miracle 
I come here. What you t’ink?’* 

“The hand of God was in it, Mr. 
Schulenberg, I believe,” said Sister Emilia. 

‘ ‘ But I have an idea that He will do still 
more for you, and the next thing will be 
to find your daughter. ’ ’ 

“But how. Sister, — how,” nervously 
replied the old man, “when I write and 
write and write again since two year, and 
not find anyt’ing of her? Once, de last 
time, my letter comes back. I write dat I 
am well and not poor, and ask her pardon 
for what I do. I would not dat she know 
I am in de Home. You understand, Sister, 
it is not dat I haf not feeling of grateful 
in my heart. But you understand ? ’ ’ 

“ Certainly, I do,” was the reply. “ From 
what you say it would seem that you can 


A. HEART HISTORY. 


227 


not find any trace of your daughter. Still 
God is never tired of helping us. Perhaps 
by writing to the I^ittle Sisters in Vienna 
we may be able to do something.’* 

The worn face brightened. 

**Ach! dat will be good, Sister,” he said. 
“I haf not fought of dat. Glad am I 
dat I haf told you my story. ’ ’ 

After a few words of sympathy, I took 
my departure, wishing and praying that the 
old man might be able to hear some news 
of his daughter before the close of his life, 
which could not now be far distant. I 
heard the conclusion of his story some time 
after, from Sister Emilia. 

” I have something wonderful to tell 
you,” she said one day. Martin 
Euther’ has gone.” 

“Not dead?” I exclaimed. 

“No: gone with his daughter. ” 

“With his daughter! Why, that does 
look like a miracle! How did he find her? ” 

‘ ‘ She found him here in the Home, and 
quite accidentally. Come upstairs to the 
linen room, and I will tell you about it 
while I am looking over the clothes to 
be mended.” 

I needed no second invitation, and in 


228 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

a few moments Sister Emilia was telling 
me the strange sequel of the old man’s 
story. She said: 

‘ ‘ The very next Sunday after you were 
here the poor man was sitting on the upper 
piazza; he had not been able to go down- 
stairs since his illness. The house was 
unusually filled with visitors that day. 
Among them were a gentleman and lady, 
with two young girls of about sixteen and 
eighteen, — all well dressed, good-looking, 
and refined. They were Germans, I 
knew; for I had heard them speaking. 

‘ ‘ ‘ We have but recently come to the 
city to live,’ said the lady, who was about 
forty years old; ‘but wherever we have 
lived we have always been much interested 
in the Tittle Sisters and the old people 
whom they have under their charge.’ 

“She had scarcely finished speaking 
when one of the girls, who had been in 
advance, came hurrying back. 

“‘Mamma,’ she said, ‘there is such a 
dear old man out there! He is so clean, so 
gentle- looking and so refined that it is a 
pleasure to see him. Come and speak to 
him. I know he must be German. ’ 

“ ‘Hilda! Hilda! ’ said the other, joining 


A HEART HISTORY. 


229 


her, * he wishes you to come back; he says 
you remind him of some one, and he is 
crying.’ 

“I will tell you frankly,” laughed Sister 
Emilia, “that, with my usual mind-reading 
and prophetic intuitions, as you call them, 
I foresaw the dinouenient at once. I 
hurried them over to our dear old Mr. 
Schulenberg, whom we found in a state 
of great excitement. 

Hilda! Hilda!’ he cried out, standing 
up and looking wildly about him. ‘ Who 
called Hilda, or did I hear right ? ’ 

“And then followed a scene. The lady 
threw her arms about the old man, crying 
aloud; the girls caught the infection; the 
gentleman wiped his eyes, and I will not 
deny that there were a couple of tears in 
my own. You know how emotional the 
Germans are. Paternal and filial affection 
with them is remarkably strong. 

” ‘ Oh, to think that we should find you 
here! ’ said the lady. 

‘“Oh, to think that she does not turn 
away from her hard-hearted father!’ said 
the old man. 

‘“But, mamma, you always said grand- 
papa was dead! ’ exclaimed the girls. 


230 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“Only the husband stood a little aloof 
and said nothing, though he, too, shared 
in the wild delight of the others. 

“lyittle by little the strange story was 
told. The daughter had not dared to com- 
municate further with her father after he 
had returned her letters, and she came to 
this country with her husband and family 
shortly after he had left Germany. They 
had prospered; she had taught her children 
to revere his memory, and to recognize 
in every indigent old man and woman 
whom they met the grandparents they had 
never known. I believe that woman and 
her husband are perfect Christians. 

“After the first excitement had subsided, 
the husband was brought forward, and the 
two men fell into each other’s arms, and 
said a great deal in German which I could 
not understand. It was pathetic to hear 
that poor old man accusing himself of 
unworthiness, and to see the daughter and 
her children beside themselves with joy at 
having found him. 

“ By this time a crowd had gathered, and 
I thought it best to announce the good 
news. Then ensued another five minutes 
of rejoicing and congratulations from the 


A HEART HISTORY. 


2ai 

old people, men and women. It all ended 
by ‘Martin lyUther’ being carried away in 
triumph to his daughter’s home. The last 
thing I heard, as they got into the carriage, 
was: 

“‘Mamma, it must have been that for 
which you have always been praying to 
dear St. Anthony.’ 

‘“It was, it was, my darling!’ said the 
mother; ‘ and now we will have many 
Masses said in his honor, and will make 
an offering for the new statue in the 
Franciscans’ Church.’ 

“‘And something tomorrow for the 
Tittle Sisters,’ added the husband, trying 
to get in a word in the midst of their 
joyful chatter. 

“The next day the old man and his 
daughter returned. He had not slept well, 
he said, fearful that he had not sufficiently 
expressed his gratitude to us before he left 
us the day before. Poor old man! I wish 
that all were as grateful. His daughter 
left a substantial cheque with the good 
Mother, and gifts of groceries have been 
pouring in on us ever since. ’ ’ 

“What a delightful ending to a sad 
Story!” I said, when she had finished. 


232 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“Yes, indeed, “ replied Sister Emilia. 
* ‘ Especially as the poor old man has but 
a short time to live. It is only another 
exemplification of the power of prayer. 
Oh, I could tell many wonderful stories 
like that,” continued the good religious, 
as she laid the last article of clothing in 
the well-filled basket, which we carried 
down to the sewing-room together. 



XVIL 


THK “SMEI.I.ING COMMITTEJK.” 

One day I dropped in at the Home for 
the Aged, to find the old women in a state 
of great excitement. Certain ladies of the 
city, members of the Society for the 
Amelioration of the Condition of the 
Worthy Poor, had become possessed of 
the idea that they had a mission to investi- 
gate the workings of various charitable 
institutions, notably Catholic orphan asy- 
lums and similar refuges. They had 
chosen this day — a very inclement one — 
for their visit to the Tittle Sisters; and 
the good Mother had sent word from the 
parlor, where she had received them, that 
they would presently make their appear- 
ance in the sewing-room, where most of the 
old women were already assembled. 

I must confess that I shared their indig- 
nation at the news; and, in order to be an 
unobserved witness of what would occur — 
as I had no doubt the proceedings would 


234 CHEONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

be of interest, — I took my station at the 
farthest corner of the room, where “little 
Miss Powers,” as she was familiarly called, 
made room for me beside her. She was a 
small, slight, delicate creature, of great per- 
sonal neatness, a favorite with all who 
knew her. 

In the midst of the voluble chatter of the 
old women the door opened, and the good 
Mother stood on the threshold, making 
way for a bevy of so-called ladies, who at 
once took up their station in the centre 
of the room, where seats had been provided. 
Four sat down quietly, taking no part in 
the subsequent proceedings, — the burthen 
of which devolved on two, who had no 
doubt been chosen to conduct the “investi- 
gation.” One of these was small, dark 
and thin, with a length of nasal appendage 
that suggested inquisitiveness carried to 
the verge of impertinence; the other, tall 
and distinguished in appearance, with wavy 
iron-grey hair, and a profusion and splen- 
dor of lace and black satin which betokened 
an unlimited purse, if not the most excel- 
lent taste. I saw my little friend. Miss 
Powers, cast one swift, startled glance on 
this personage, while her delicate face 


THE “smelling COMMITTEE.’' 


235 


flushed pink; and I wondered much at the 
suddenness with which she unfastened her 
neat blue check apron, throwing it over her 
head with the edge falling well down over 
her face, so as almost to hide it. Then she 
went quietly on with her work, not taking 
any part in the excitement that began to 
manifest itself among the others. 

We heard the good Mother say — I 
fancied in a slightly amused tone, though 
the flush on her cheek was also a little 
more vivid than usual: 

“I think you will find, Madam, that they 
are all happy. At least you have only to 
ask them.” 

“Bad cess to thim for a Smelling Com- 
mittee!” said one old woman, in a loud 
whisper. “Bad cess to thim for meddle- 
some busy-bodies! I’d like to have a pot 
of scalding water to throw down upon thim 
from the gallery.” 

“Sh! sh!” added another. “The good 
Mother will hear you, and she’ll be very 
angry, — you know she told us not to mind 
thim when they come. ’ ’ 

“What do you mean by the Smelling 
Committee?” I asked, endeavoring to 
control an inclination to laughter. 


236 CHRONICLES OF ‘‘THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


“ ’Twas in the papers, ma’am. Didn’t 
you hear of it? Sure Father tould the 
good Mother of it. ’Tis some busy-bodies 
of idle women that has nothing to do but 
put their noses in other people’s affairs. 
’Twas Nellie Regan bey ant that gave thim 
the name of the Smelling Committee, and 
right well it suits thim. They do be going 
around investigating on their own hook 
to see are we well treated here, — we and 
the orphans, ma’am, and the poor souls 
in the St. Francis’ Hospitals, — in the free 
wards, I mane. You see, they have thim- 
selves out for the philanthroping of human- 
ity, ma’am, or some such business, — 
whatever it manes.” 

I could not help smiling, while the other 
old woman added; 

“Whist! whist! the one with the big 
nose and the black lace bugles is going to 
spake.” 

lyooking toward the visitors, I saw that 
the much adorned woman was waving her 
black-gloved hand. A silence fell upon the 
room, which had been filled with the buzz 
of indignant whispering voices. 

“My good women,” said their would-be 
benefactor, *T am your friend, — I am the 


THE “smelling COMMITTEE.' 


237 


friend of all who are poor and oppressed. 
I have devoted not only my life, but the 
greater part of a large fortune — left me by 
my husband, the late James T. Billinghast, 
the well-known philanthropist— to the 
amelioration of the poor and oppressed. 
Poor you are, — that is evident; but I trust 
you are not oppressed. ’ ’ A pause followed. 
She looked about her, turning her plumed 
head slowly from side to side. No one 
spoke. ‘ ‘I repeat, I trust that you are not 
oppressed, — neither coerced nor oppressed. ’ ’ 
Then ensued some whispering among the 
groups, after which a smart little woman 
stood on her feet and said: 

“Poor we are, ma’am, and poor; if 
we weren’t we wouldn’t be in it, but on our 
own flures. But as for thim other words 
you drew down to us, I misdoubt if many 
of us know the maning of thim. But, 
ma’am, if they’re in the way of any com- 
plaint agin the Tittle Sisters, nayther one 
nor the other fits us. ’ ’ 

A murmur of approbation followed this 
declaration. The lady bowed from right 
to left, and exchanged a few words with her 
companion, who stepped briskly to the 
front, and said: 


238 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“By the permission of my friend, Mrs. 
Billinghast, who entertains what I consider 
a mistaken delicacy about coming directly 
and bluntly to the point, I would ask you, 
my good creatures, in plain English: Are 
you happy in this place ? ’ ’ 

A loud chorus of voices responded: 

“We are! We are!” 

“Are you well fed ? ” 

“We are. Do we look starved? Shaine 
on ye for pretinded ladies!” came from 
different quarters of the room. 

“Have you sufficient covering on your 
beds in the inclement season ? ” 

“To be sure we have.” — “It’s too warm 
we are intirely. ” — “Ach! ach! the insult!” 
— “Have a care, ma’am, or you’ll be 
warmer than you’d like yourself directly.” 
— “Put ’em out, good Mother! put ’em 
out!” followed this interrogation. 

The good Mother raised a warning finger, 
as she remarked: 

“The motives of these ladies are probably 
good. I beg that you will not misunder- 
stand them, but answer all questions they 
may put as truthfully as you can. ’ ’ 

Another murmur of disapprobation came 
from the old women. 


THE “smelling COMMITTEE.' 


239 


Gently pushing her companion behind 
her at this juncture, the affable Mrs. Bill- 
inghast again stepped forward. Turning 
to the good Mother, she said: 

“While I do not wish to insinuate that 
these poor people are intimidated or fright- 
ened by your presence, I would suggest 
that, in the spirit of fairness and equity, 
you retire to another apartment while we 
question them further. ’ ’ 

“I doubt if it would be wise,” replied 
the good Mother, a quiet smile on her lips 
and mirth fairly dancing in her bright 
black Breton eyes. “But if you wish it, 
I will go.” 

Meanwhile a bent, shrivelled little 
woman had been edging her way to the 
front, urged by the nudges of those behind 
her, and encouraged by the smiles and nods 
of her friends on either aisle. She reached 
the good Mother’s side just as she was re- 
plying to the suggestion already mentioned. 

“And what is it she asks ye do, good 
Mother ? ’ ’ inquired the old woman, who 
rejoiced in the name of Alley Fogarty. 

“The lady thinks you would answer her 
questions more freely if I were to go out,” 
was the reply. 


240 CHRONICLES OP “the LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“ ’Tis frip^htened of her they thought 
maybe we’d be,” said another. 

At this a loud murmur, amounting 
almost to a wail, burst from the inmates, 
who were now crowding closer together, all 
anxious to see and hear. 

‘‘Go out. Mother darlint!’^ said Alley 
Fogarty. “Go, asthore! Sure they won’t 
hurt us, — they mane well.” 

“Do, good Mother,” said another old 
woman, who had followed Alley from the 
rear. Her name was Betty Mullen. They 
were the two oldest inmates of the Home, 
and had been with the Tittle Sisters since 
its foundation. 

“Yes, oblige thim; do!” — “Be polite to 
the ladies, and lave yer own rooms when 
they ask ye.” — “Take a turn in the garden, 
good Mother; ’twill refresh ye,” resounded 
on all sides. One would almost think 
they spoke by a concerted plan, so unani- 
mous seemed to be their wish that the 
good Mother should comply with the 
request of the visitors. 

Scarcely able to repress the laughter 
which arose to her lips, the good Mother 
hesitated no longer, but quietly opened the 
door and left the room. 


THE “smelling COMMITTEE. 


241 


For a moment there was silence, save 
for the whispered conference of the two 
visitors. Finally Mrs. Billinghast faced 
about, saying: 

“I understand there are several Protes- 
tants here. Let such persons, if there be 
any, stand up.” 

They did as requested, to the number 
of ten. 

“Why, my misguided friends,” she con- 
tinued, “have you sought this institution 
in preference to one where you would have 
the privilege of reading the Gospel and of 
hearing the truths of religion instead of 
the falsehoods of superstition ? ’ ’ 

A woman quietly replied: 

“I can say for myself, ma’am, that I 
came here because it was the only place 
open to me. ’ ’ 

“There is the Widows’ Home,” said the 
hench-woman of Mrs. Billinghast. 

“A sum of money which I did not have 
was required for entrance there, ma’am.” 

“That was my case exactly,” observed 
another of the Protestant group. ‘ ‘There 
is too much red tape about Protestant 
Homes for me.” 

The visitors seemed nonplussed. How- 


242 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


ever, after another brief and (for them at 
least) somewhat embarrassing silence, 
Mrs. Billinghast continued: 

“I understand that you are obliged to 
drink tea and coffee made from the refuse 
of the hotels. Is such the case? ” 

“We’re not required to drink ayther, 
ma’am, unless we like it. We can have 
hot or could water instead,” answered the 
smart little woman mentioned in the 
beginning of the recital. 

“But do you like it, and can you drink 
it ? ” inquired the visitor, in a compassion- 
ate tone. 

‘ ‘ ’ Tis better than many of us had before 
we came in it,” was the reply. “Coffee 
and tay don’t be rising up out of the 
ground, ma’am; and if the Sisters isn’t 
above gathering it for us, we shouldn’t be 
above drinking it, and we’re not.” 

Loud murmurs of approbation, with 
several uneasy “Aherns!” from the visitors, 
who began to look about, not without 
apprehension, as the circle of old women 
gradually closed around them. 

At this moment Alley Fogarty stepped 
forward, holding her friend Betty by the 
hand. Each dropped a curtsy. 


THE “smelling COMMITTEE. 


243 


“Do you spake for us, Alley,” said tlie 
other. 

“I will,” answered Alley, with great 
self-possession. “’Tis I that am aiqual 
to ’em, thanks be to God!” Then, with all 
the strength of her old, tremulous voice, 
she continued, addressing herself to the 
Committee: 

“Ladies — for by yer clothes ye should 
be ladies, but by yer manners there’s no 
telling whaL — I am eighty past, and this 
ould woman by me is turning eighty-three. 
We’re in the Home from sixty up, a 
hundred poor ould men and women. Some 
of us left our kin when we were young, 
and we lost track of thim, and they of us. 
Some of us were bereaved by death. Some 
of us had ungrateful childher, that left us 
in our ould age; and some of us never had 
any childher to be a stab to our hearts. 
Most of us came here clane and dacint and 
paceable, and had seen better days; a few 
of us never knew a good home till we came 
to it. Some of us came with warm clothing 
and comfortable feather-beds; some of us 
had no clothing to cover us but what we 
had on our backs. But the good Little 
Sisters welcome all alike. Thim that’s 


244 CHRONICLES OF “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

covered with vermin they wash with their 
own hands and give thim clane clothes; 
thim that’s naked they cover. Me and the 
ould woman beside me know — they all 
know it, but we’re the ouldest and we’re 
in it the longest — that if it weren’t for the 
lyittle Sisters, the most of us would be in 
the pickling vats of the medical colleges 
long ago; for that’s where they lave the 
poor and friendless that die in the hospitals 
of ould age, or in dirty tenement houses of 
neglect and starvation. And there’s many 
a good man and woman took to the drink 
from poverty and sickness in their latter 
days; and there’s many a one cured and 
saved from that same evil, by coming here. 
’Tisn’t friends they are to us, but good, 
kind fathers and mothers and sisters and 
brothers tin times over. D’ye see, ma’am? 
D’ye understand?” 

“Whist, Betty! Ye’re disgracing me,” 
she added, sharply, turning to her com- 
panion, who began to whimper audibly. 
“Sit down, Betty, — sit down, ye poor ould 
creature! ’Tis too much for ye.” 

Gently placing Betty on a bench, she 
turned once more to her audience, who 
seemed to have lost the power of speech; 


THE “SMELLING COMMITTEE. 


245 


and this time she shook her fist in the faces 
of the discomfited Committee, as she cried, 
in tones of fiercest scorn: 

“readies ye calls yerselves, do ye? Ah! 
’twas an idle and a foolish hour for ye 
when ye set out to throw mud on the I^ittle 
Sisters of God’s poor, with yer investiga- 
tions and yer insults. ’Tis well for ye ye’re 
where ye are, and that we all know our 
duty to thim that shelter us, in the way of 
not maltrating the stranger; for if it weren’t 
for that same, I’m loath to say what reward 
ye’d get for yer pains. But we respect the 
Sisters, and we’ll let ye go paceable and 
quiet, if yeHl go widout any ynore talking. 
Thim that called ye the Smelling Com- 
mittee named ye well, and I’m thinking 
the scent of ye won’t lave this place before 
a month of Sundays. And I’ll warn ye, 
ladies f she added, as they silently filed 
past her, with their noses well up in air 
and a tremulous scorn on their lips, — “I’ll 
warn ye that, aisy as ye had it here, ye 
mightn’t find it so aisy in the men’s quar- 
ters, if ye’re thinking of calling in. ’Tis 
few words they’d spake to ye, but — ’’ 

Then, as the door opened, and the crest- 
fallen Committee, looking neither to the 


24:6 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

right nor the left, passed into the corridor, 
there arose as by one accord from sixty 
throats, withered, trembling though they 
were, a “Hurrah for the I^ittle Sisters!” 
that made the stout walls ring again. 



XVIII. 

MISS POWERS. 

It will be remembered that on occasion 
of the visit of the “Smelling Committee,’^ 
described in the last “Chronicle,” I men- 
tioned that “little Miss Powers,” beside 
whom I was sitting at the time the visitors 
made their appearance, had hastily thrown 
her apron over her head in a manner 
which struck me as peculiar, and to which 
I attached some significance. She was, 
ordinarily, such a matter-of-fact, sensible 
person that I felt she had not done this 
from a mere freak, and I resolved to ask 
her motive at the first opportunity. This 
was rendered unnecessary; for on my next 
visit to the Home, which was on the Feast 
of St. Joseph — the patronal Feast, — ^she 
came to meet me from a crowd of happy old 
women, making merry over the antics of 
a playful child of eighty-five or thereabouts, 
who was dancing a jig in the arbor. 

“Good-afternoon!” said my little friend. 

247 


248 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


“I have been anxious to see you ever since 
that day when I threw my apron over my 
head in the sewing* room. I wonder what 
you thought of me? ’’ 

“I have been not a little curious about 
it, I acknowledge,” I replied. “To tell 
the truth, I was going to ask you today 
why you did it.” 

“And I intended to tell you all about it,” 
she rejoined, as we walked down the path 
together. “I recognized that woman at 
once, and did not wish her to recognize 
me in this place. I could not have borne 
it.” 

“You knew her, then?” I said. “I 
refer to the distinguished- looking leader. ’ ’ 

My companion smiled, and went on : 

“We worked together in a milliner shop 
in Boston for seven years. She was a 
foundling, taken out of the poorhouse and 
adopted by a good truck-man and his wife, 
who had no children of their own. When 
they died she came to room next to me, 
and that is how it came about — that — well, 
that she ruined my life for me. Perhaps 
God will forgive me that I can not forget 
the injury, altogether; for I have never 
wished her harm. But I always try to 


LITTLE MISS POWERS. 


249 


banish the thought of her when it comes; 
it is not pleasant.” 

‘%et us sit here on the steps of the 
chapel,” I said. “You will be tired walk- 
ing about in the hot sun; you are such 
a frail little creature.” 

“I was always a very delicate little 
thing,” she said, after we had seated our- 
selves. “I was left an orphan young, but 
managed to take care of myself well 
enough; and I was not without education, 
being fond of reading, — not romances or 
story papers, but solid, good books. When 
I was about eighteen I became acquainted 
with a young man who lodged in the same 
building. We met one morning coming 
from Mass; and, as we were both Catholics, 
we soon formed a friendship for each other, 
which gradually deepened into love. He 
was not very strong; and, being just out 
of his apprenticeship — he was a machinist, 
— we could not think of marrying. Ours 
was not a romantic courtship: we just 
jogged on together quietly and sensibly. 
We never quarrelled. He told me all his 
plans and hopes for the future, and we 
were very happy. Arthur was a handsome 
fellow, much better-looking than I was; 


250 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

and many of the girls would have been 
glad to be in my place. But, still, he was 
too quiet for most of them. He didn’t 
care much for parties or picnics, neither did 
I. He never seemed to know there was 
any other girl but myself after we began to 
like each other. He was always planning 
little inventions. One in particular occu- 
pied much of his time and thoughts. He 
said he knew it would make him a rich 
man if perfected. My own brains were not 
so bad, and we spent many an hour to- 
gether trying to bring it to the point. 

“I don’t know exactly where or when 
Asenath Ashcraft saw him first, but she 
suddenly began to tease me about my 
handsome beau. Then she was vexed 
because he didn’t notice her; and finally 
we had some words, when she said she 
could take him away from me if she tried, 
and I dared her to do it. He once asked 
me how I could find any pleasure in her 
society, he thought her so bold and for- 
ward; and he wouldn’t even admit that she 
was handsome. There was no doubt in my 
mind as to that. I wasn’t mean enough, 
though I didn’t like her, to deny her what 
was due her on the score of good looks. 


LITTLE MISS POWERS. 


251 


She dressed well, and thought a good deal 
of fixing herself up; in fact, that was about 
all she did think of. Maybe I oughtn’t 
to be hard on her. She had no religion. 

“Very soon after we had the little spat 
she came to room in our building. She 
tried to be great friends with me, and was 
always running in and out. Arthur would 
not treat her even with decent civility. 
She didn’t seem to mind his snubs at all, 
but was just as sweet as she could be to 
him. 

“I was taken sick with typhoid fever 
that fall, and was obliged to go to the 
hospital. From that I went to Salem, 
where I had a cousin; for I wasn’t able to 
work, I was so weakened by the fever. 
When I returned to my own little room, 
again, I felt that something was wrong with 
Arthur; and when Asenath came in I read 
the whole story. She had actually be- 
witched him while I was away. Hence- 
forth he had eyes and ears only for her. 
I had had my day of happiness, and now 
it was over. I never saw any one change 
as he did, I was disgusted with his con- 
duct; so I took myself off again one morn- 
ing to Salem, and found work there. It 


252 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

wasn’t long till I heard they were married, 
and by that time I had tried to get used to 
it. Everyone thought it an ill-assorted 
match. 

“Four years passed. I never heard any- 
thing of them. I hoped they were happy; 
I was almost beginning to believe I had 
been prejudiced against Asenath, and that 
perhaps she was making him a better wife 
than I could have been. Finally, I went 
back to Boston, and got work in my old 
place. The morning I began there I was 
very much surprised to see Asenath come 
in and sit down at the long table with the 
others. She looked tawdry and shabby. 
I said nothing, asked no questions of any 
one, but I wondered whether Arthur could 
have died. I was hoping she hadn’t 
noticed me; I didn’t want to be so close to 
her, and resolved to find another place as 
soon as possible. But she soon recognized 
me. At noon-time she came over, sat 
down beside me and said: 

“‘Well, Fanny, I suppose you’re sur- 
prised to see me at the shop again. Are 
you not? ’ ” 

‘“Yes, Asenath,’ I said, ‘I am. I did 
not know your husband was dead. ’ 


LITTLE MISS POWERS. 


253 


“ ‘Dead!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s not 
dead. I wish he were. But he is dead 
drunk nearly all the time, and that’s why 
I'm here. If it gives you any comfort to 
know that I put my foot in it, there you 
have it. I married him only because you 
dared me to get him away from you, any- 
how; and he soon found it out.’ 

“I thought I should faint where I sat. 
I could not fancy the Arthur I had loved 
a drunkard I was shocked by her heart- 
lessness. I had not a word to answer her. 
‘O Asenathl’ was all I could say. I ought 
to have despised him, perhaps; they always 
do in novels, you know. But I only pitied 
him, and all the old wounds were opened 
again. I worked only one day in that 
shop. I did not wish to meet her. And, 
what was worse than all, the girls told me 
she did not bear a very good name. 

“Several months afterward, one winter 
evening about six o’clock, as I was return- 
ing from work, I felt myself roughly 
grasped by the shoulder. I looked around. 
It was Asenath. 

“‘Look here, Fanny!’ she said. ‘You 
are just the person I want to see. I’m 
not living with Arthur any more; I’m tired 


254 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


taking care of a drunken wreck, so I think 
I’ll save myself for a handsomer man. He 
fairly hates the sight of me, so we’re “neither 
of us crying about the other. The fact 
is, he’s at the Charity Hospital. I went 
to see him once, but he was out of his head, 
and calling “Fanny!” Now you can see 
I’m not as bad as you thought me, or I 
wouldn’t have told you. You’re a Chris- 
tian, you’d better go to see him.’ 

‘ ‘And before I could answer her she was 
gone. 

“On Sunday I went to the Hospital. He 
was dying of quick consumption. I would 
not have known him. He asked me who 
had told me. I answered: 

‘ ‘ ‘ Asenath. ’ 

“ ‘Ah, Fanny!’ he said, ‘that is one good 
turn, — the only one she ever did me. If 
you ever bore me a grudge, dear old friend, 
you have had your revenge. ’ 

“‘Arthur,’ I said, ‘what is past is past. 
Do not let us speak of it again. All you 
have to think of now is eternity and your 
salvation. The Sister tells me you know 
that you are going fast.’ 

“He smiled. ‘lam faring much better 
than I have deserved,’ he said; ‘but there 


LITTLE MISS POWERS. 


255 


will be a very long stretch in purgatory 
before I reach heaven.’ 

“I went every evening until he died. I 
think those weeks were the happiest time 
of my life. I was so thankful to see him 
so happy and content. He grew to look 
like his old self again; for good care and 
kindness make a wonderful difference. 
He did not suffer much. Asenath never 
came near him; we never spoke of her. 
Only by the long, sad look he would some- 
times fix upon me as I sat beside him could 
I tell that his thoughts were with the past. 
And so pure and free from every taint of 
earth was my affection for him that I might 
have been his mother waiting to receive his 
last breath. In those last days I really 
grew to feel as a mother would, if watching 
her dying child. 

“One Sunday I went early, as I was free 
for the day. I saw a great change in him. 
He recognized it himself, and asked for the 
Viaticum. After all was over, I thought, 
by the expression of his eyes, he wanted 
to say something. 

“‘Fanny,’ he began, ‘do you remem- 
ber the devige you and I invented 
together? ’ 


256 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


“.‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I had not much to do 
with the invention, though.’ 

“‘But you had,’ he answered. ‘It was 
really your suggestion that put the right 
thing into my head about it. I laid it 
aside; but — well — after a while, when I 
began to be unhappy, I took it up again 
and finished it. ’ 

“ ‘And did you ever try to get it 
patented?’ I asked. 

“‘No,’ he replied. ‘But I wanted to 
tell you that I would have made it all right 
with you if I had. ’ 

“ ‘I would not have taken anything from 
you, Arthur,’ I said. ‘Be sure of it.’ 

“‘Well, that might have been, too,’ he 
answered; ‘but I wanted you to know.’ 

“I asked him what had become of it. 

“‘A Mr. Billinghast, one of the firm of 
Daning Brothers, to whom I tried to dispose 
of it, came to see me about it several times. 
He was so interested in it that I knew it 
must be good. But the day before I came 
here — the very day she went away — 
Asenath burned the model by mistake. 
And so my last hope went down with my 
wrecked life.’ 

“Poor fellow! how I pitied him! But I 


LITTLE MISS POWERS. 


257 


made light of it. He died before the 
day closed. I was the only one who fol- 
lowed him to the grave. Asenath I never 
saw again luntil she came here last week. 
But something that occurred shortly after 
has kept her in my memory all these years. 
First she married Mr. Billinghast, and that 
created a great sensation in the city, his 
family being very proud. Next her hus- 
band made a large addition to his fortune 
by the invention of a piece of machinery, 
which I have never had the slightest doubt 
was Arthur’s own invention, the model of 
which Asenath pretended to have burned. 
Now she stands at the top of the ladder, 
and I am at the foot. But it is needless to 
say to you that I do not envy her, and 
would not change places with her. I have 
often read of her in the papers as a leader 
in society and societies. That is why I 
covered my head with my apron that day; 
for I would not have had her recognize me. 
She might have offered me charity, — she 
probably would not have pretended to 
know me; but I preferred to spare her and 
myself either alternative.” 

I looked down at the pale, kind face and 
snowy hair; and thought, as I had often 


258 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

thought before, of how strange a thing is 
life, and how tangled and inexplicable the 
web the design of which is made plain and 
straight only by the great Designer in the 
land that lies beyond. 

“How strange,” I said, “that you and 
she should be in the same place, and in 
such different circmstances!” 

“I would not exchange the peace and 
happiness of my life for all her wealth and 
position,” she replied. “If rumor speaks 
true, she lived as unhappily with her 
second husband as her first. The injury 
she did me I try to forget. Arthur I for- 
gave before he ever married her. I never 
bore a grudge against him. There is 
nothing in my memory of him but kindness 
and effection. And she — I doubt if she 
knows where he is buried. ” After a short 
pause she added: “There is a little woman 
in Boston who takes care of his grave for 
me. When I came out here with my cousin 
fifteen years ago I gave it in her charge. 
She is a priest’s housekeeper. I used to 
trim her bonnets without charge. Every 
year after Decoration she writes me a letter, 
and tells me how nicely the myrtle is grow- 
ing on it. East year she had the head- 


LITTLE MISS POWERS. 


259 


stone cleaned. It was very good of her; 
for I never have a penny of my own to 
send her. But she will soon be going: she 
is quite old. I am not so old; it is my 
heart that is weak.” 

“It is a strong, brave, faithful heart, that 
of yours,” I said, clasping her small, worn, 
tender little hand. 


XIX. 

THE) STORY OR A WRONGED PRIKSI 

About forty years ago there came to a 
growing town in one of the Southwestern 
States a young priest, who, by his piety, 
zeal, and many other beautiful and noble 
qualities, endeared himself to all who knew 
him. He was a Canadian by birth; but 
his mother, an Irishwoman, had long 
wished to reside in the United States; and 
it was to please her that he left his native 
diocese and cast his lot in a new country, 
among a new people. He was the only 
son of that mother, and she was a widow. 
She was a refined and educated woman, 
greatly superior in every respect to those 
among whom she had chosen to spend her 
declining years; but she never asserted her 
superiority in any way, and the people 
became almost as warmly attached to her 
as to Father D. It soon grew to be, in 
every sense, an ideal parish. 

Five years the shepherd and his flock 
260 


THE STORY OF A WRONGED PRIEST. 


261 


dwelt together in harmony, when suddenly 
the health of the widow began to fail, and 
she found it necessary to take a servant. 
One was found in the person of a stout, 
ruddy-faced Englishwoman, whom Father 
D. brought home with him from a trip to 
the city where the Bishop resided, and 
whither he had gone on some diocesan 
business. She proved to be well fitted for 
her avocation, and was soon required to 
add that of nurse to her other duties; for 
Mrs. D. began to fail rapidly. She died at 
the expiration of a year, mourned by all 
who knew her, but making desolate the 
heart of her son, who, with the exception 
of the time spent at college and in the 
seminary, had never been separated from 
her. 

For some time all went quietly in the 
little household, now consisting only of the 
priest and his servant, who had never afl&li- 
ated with the towns-people, and was not 
well known by any of them. But this 
state of affairs was gradually changed. 
Twice or three times Father D. was 
reported to be ill, — something that had not 
occurred before during his ministrations at 
C. ; and there was considerable quiet 


262 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

whispering and grave shaking of heads 
among the elderly fathers of families, who 
represented the most prominent portion 
of the congregation. Several times the 
housekeeper was seen issuing from the 
various places of business of these gentle- 
men. There was something unusual in 
the air, though the knowledge of it was 
confined to the very few. 

At length the storm burst forth. None 
who were present ever forgot that morning 
in early spring, when the Bishop sud- 
denly made his appearance in the sanctuary 
where Father D. was preaching after late 
Mass, ordering him then and there to 
remove his vestments and go forth forever 
from the temple of God, an unfrocked 
priest, a ruined and dishonored man. Nor 
could they forget the horror that thrilled 
the hearts of his people as the young priest 
obeyed, without a single word in his own 
defence, so absolutely and so quickly that 
when the Bishop returned to the pastoral 
residence the dishonored priest had departed 
without having t^ken a single article of 
clothing from his bureau, nor a book from 
the library, which was all his own, and 
which had been his only worldly treasure. 


THE STORY OF A WRONGED PRIEST. 263 


With that inherent cruelty which seems 
inseparable from human nature — the 
cruelty which cried out ^^Crucifige!^^ on 
Him whom a few short days before they 
had greeted as a King, — the majority of 
those to whom Father D. had ministered 
faithfully and unselfishly for years judged 
him guilty of the offence with which he 
was charged, and worthy of the punishment 
he had been made to undergo. The sud- 
denness of his departure, and his entire dis- 
appearance from that memorable Sunday, 
strengthened this belief on their part. But 
there were others, although their number 
was not great, who lived and died as firmly 
convinced of his* innocence, interpreting his 
submission as sacrifice, his silence as the 
complete abnegation of one whose only aim 
was to follow his Master step by step, with 
thorn-crowned brow and pierced heart and 
bleeding feet, all the way to the heights 
of Calvary. Subsequent events pointed to 
the truth of that opinion. 

< • • • • ... 

In a small lumber-room, upon a com- 
fortable cot, at the Home for the Aged at 
X. , an old woman lay dying by her own 
hand. She had long suffered from a can- 


264 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

cerous disease of the mouth and throat, 
which had at last begun to emit an odor so 
offensive that the brittle Sisters were obliged 
to remove her from the dormitory, and 
make her a bed in this primitive but cleanly 
place. She had felt her affliction so keenly 
that her life had lately been one of almost 
entire isolation. She had always been a 
strange old woman, generally maintaining a 
reserved silence; although at times she 
would be attacked by a species of mania, 
during which she would walk about the 
yard, clenching her hands and calling on 
God to pardon her, with wild objurgations 
for some crime of which she accused herself. 
These attacks were always followed by 
seasons of great melancholy. Vainly did 
the Tittle Sisters try to lead her thoughts 
to religion. She was not, and had never 
been, a Catholic, she said; across the 
threshold of the chapel she never set her 
feet. 

One morning on going to her bedside, one 
of the Tittle Sisters found her bleeding 
from a severed artery in her wrist, which 
she had cut during the night with a piece 
of glass, hoping, she said afterward, that 
she would have been relieved of her suffer- 


THE STORY OF A WRONGED PRIEST. 265 


ing before morning. When found, she was 
greatly exhausted; but after the physician 
had been summoned, she was revived 
temporarily by stimulants. It was after 
the Sisters had endeavored, without success, 
to prevail upon her to see a clergyman that 
she seemed to acquire an artificial strength, 
and protested against the mention of such 
a thing, loudly crying out that for her 
there was no salvation. Finally, she ex- 
claimed: 

“Good Mother, moisten my lips so that 
I may be able to tell you who and what 
I am. I thought to die with my crime and 
my secret unrevealed; but the devil, that 
has lodged in my soul for many years, has 
got the better of my will at last, and forces 
me to reveal all. ’ ’ 

Then, between intervals of weakness, 
during which the good Mother wiped from 
her brow the clammy sweat of death that 
was already gathering there, she told her 
terrible story, which I give from memory 
as best I can, having received it only at 
second hand from the Little Sisters. She 
said: 

“My father was a Catholic; my mother 
had no religion. In fact, neither of them 


266 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’’ 

had any, although they were always quar- 
relling about it. This much I remember: 
I was born in London, received a fair edu- 
cation, and lived there until I was sixteen 
years old. At that time I ran away from 
home, and was on the streets until I 
was past twenty years of age, when I was 
arrested in Liverpool for theft. After I 
had served my term in prison, the matron 
persuaded me to go into the House of the 

Good Shepherd at , not far from 

London, where she had a relative among 
the Sisters. (She was not a Catholic 
herself.) But I very soon tired of the 
restraint. After six months’ time I ran 
away, although I could have gone out de- 
cently if I had wished to do so. I went 
back to my old life, drifted to Canada, and 
afterward to the United States, when I met 
Father D. on the street one unfortunate 
day, and asked him — knowing by his 
appearance that he was a priest — if he 
knew of any one who wanted a servant. 
My English speech recommended me to 
him at once; he took me home to his 
mother. 

‘T soon won her affection, and, by a great 
show of zeal and affected piety, by degrees 


THE STORY OP A WRONGED PRIEST. 267 


inspired confidehce in the priest. One day 
Mrs. D. was suddenly taken sick, and died 
in a few hours, leaving Father D. grief- 
stricken; for he was especially devoted to 
her. A few weeks afterward I received a 
letter from one of the companions of my 
evil days, detailing a wicked project she had 
formed, and saying that if by any device 
I could obtain the money necessary to 
carry it through, I should share in the 
profits. I had always been tortured by the 
desire to steal, and in this case the tempta- 
tion was strengthened by an irresistible 
longing to return to my wicked life. Next 
Sunday a special collection was taken up, 
and a large sum realized. Here was my 
opportunity and my ruin. 

“I was detected, and the indecent letter 
fell into Father D.’s hands. He was 
horror-stricken and disgusted. He knew I 
had frequented the Sacraments regularly, 
although I had never been baptized. He 
bade me leave the house at once; then, ap- 
parently realizing that I would be homeless, 
told me I might remain until I had found 
some other place. Therein lay his mistake. 
If he had driven me from the house at once, 
in my chagrin I would have left the town 


268 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

also; but the delay gave me time to think and 
plot; for seven devils now possessed my 
soul, which became filled with a deadly 
hatred against him. I lay awake all night 
conniving at what I should do. 

“A few days before, Father D. had been 
ill, — an unusual circumstance. The next 
day I went about among the principal 
members of the congregation, telling each 
one in confidence that he had become 
addicted to drink, and bewailing the 
unfortunate habit into which, I said, he 
had fallen through grief at the death of his 
mother. I added that I feared to remain 
in the house with him, as when intoxicated 
he was not himself; and told them I had 
already begun to make preparations for my 
departure. These carousals, I reported, 
took place nightly. The persons to whom 
I made these revelations were horrified; 
several expressed doubt of their truth. I 
had anticipated this, and was prepared for 
it. I begged that a few of the most respon- 
sible men of the congregation should get 
together any evening they might name, 
offering to give them ocular proof of my 
assertions. They named the next evening, 
Friday. 


THE STOEY OF i. WEONGED PRIEST. 269 


*‘My intercourse with Father D. was 
now confined to bare necessary words. His 
studied avoidance of me — he would not 
even look toward my direction — intensified 
my hatred. I knew all about the use of 
morphine, and had a quantity in my pos- 
session. On Friday evening I put some in 
his tea. About eight o’clock he came to 
the dining-room where I was sitting, and 
said; ‘lam unaccountably sleepy and must 
lie down. If any one should come, please 
call me. It is late for visitors, but there 
might be a sick call.’ He gave me this 
order, because at night he always attended 
to the bell himself. I stole on tiptoe to 
the door, and soon heard him breathing 
heavily. Then I went to the cellar, brought 
up some empty bottles which had contained 
beer — I had drunk it myself, — also one of 
cheap whiskey, for which I had a certain 
use. Throwing a shawl over my head, I 
broke the bottle of whiskey on the floor, 
in order that the aroma would greet the 
committee on their entrance, and hurried 
off to the school- house, where they were 
awaiting me. They followed me to the 
house, and saw Father D. stretched upon 
the lounge in what appeared to be a drunken 


270 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

sleep. I stood apart, apparently weeping, 
but really gloating over what I had done. 
They were all terribly shocked. After 
they had gone I removed all evidences of 
intoxication, and went to bed, 

“In the morning Father D. said Mass as 
usual, but was not well all day. On Sunday 
he must have seen displeasure or aversion 
in some faces; for he came in at nightfall 
looking sad and perplexed, and sat for some 
time after tea at the table, leaning his head 
upon his hand. That night the tea was 
drugged also. Some hours later I went to 
the sitting-room, found him sound asleep 
in his chair, where he still remained 
when, at the head of a committee of six, 
I returned for further demonstration of 
what I had asserted. I then announced 
my intention of leaving the ensuing week. 
After their departure I went to bed, leaving 
Father D. still in a stupor in his chair. 
The next day he was ill again, and several 
times I saw him looking at me with a 
curious expression. I have always believed 
that he half suspected me of trying to 
poison him. 

“On Tuesday night my fiendish plan 
culminated. About eleven o’clock I ran, 


THE STORY OF A WRONGED PRIEST. 271 


half dressed, to a neighboring house, cry- 
ing that my life was in danger. The 
gentleman in whose house I took refuge 
wanted to go at once and summon others, 
and with them repair to the house of the 
priest. But with prayers and tears I im- 
plored him not to do so, saying it would be 
better for two or three reliable persons, who 
had seen Father D. in a state of intoxication, 
to accompany me to the city where the Bishop 
resided, and tell him the pitiful story. 
This was agreed upon. We went next 
morning, told the tale, and I added accusa- 
tions which I had hitherto kept back. The 
Bishop was a good man, but very excitable 
and easily deceived. My story was so 
plausible, my distress and sorrow seemed 
so great, and the evidence of eye-witnesses 
so clear, that he was at once impressed with 
the truth of all that was said. He bade 
the men go home and keep silence, told me 
to remain in the city until further orders, 
and sent me to lodge at the Sisters of 
Mercy. 

“Tong before Sunday came it had been 
whispered about that P'ather D. had fallen 
into disgrace, although nothing tangible 
had been revealed to the public. I heard 


272 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

later that he went about during the week 
performing his usual duties; showing by 
his manner that he knew something was 
amiss, but asking no explanation of the 
changed demeanor of his people. On 
Saturday afternoon the Bishop sent for 
me, questioned me closely, and told me to 
be in readiness to accompany him to C. 
next morning. I met him at the depot; 
two hours later we were in C. ” 

After telling the particulars already 
related at the beginning of this sketch, the 
wretched woman continued: 

“I did not anticipate that the Bishop 
would have done any more than give the 
priest a terrible lecture: I did not think 
that he would send him away. But when 
I saw and heard the fearful punishment 
and disgrace inflicted on him, I felt as 
Judas must have felt when he threw the 
thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests on 
the morning of the Crucifixion. I ran to 
the house and began to gather up my 
clothes. 

“Father D. came in a moment after. 
I saw him go into the sitting-room, put on 
his coat, pick up his hat and breviary, and 
leave the house. He did not take a single 


THE STORY OP A WRONGED PRIEST. 273 


article of clothing; he looked neither to the 
right nor left as he passed out. Oh! if I 
had had the virtue or the courage even at 
that late hour to take back the accusations 
by which I had ruined him, all might have 
been well with him again. But I had 
neither; and because I put away that 
chance of repentance, my soul will be lost 
forever. But revenge died in my heart 
from that hour. 

‘ ‘I left the town, plunged into the dissi- 
pation of the great cities, and resumed my 
old life. Three times I tried to commit 
suicide. / could not die. Many long 
years I wandered up and down, going from 
one city to another, till one day, five years 

ago, I found myself in front of 

Cathedral. Something forced me to enter 
the house. I asked for the Bishop. They 
told me he was dead. I then inquired for 
his successor. He came, a young man. 
But when I told him my story he did not 
believe me. He had never heard of Father 
D. He thought I was crazy, and bade me 
go into the church and pray. But I insisted 
on the truth of what I said, until finally 
he arose, made a motion with his hands as 
though repulsing me, and exclaimed: ‘Go, 


274 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’’ 

go to the church, and ask God to forgive 
you, if what you have said be true. But 
I do not believe it for a moment; your 
brain must be disordered. If it is not, that 
poor priest must have died. Go away, and 
do not come here again.’ Having found 
shelter with a respectable old woman, from 
that time forward I led a decent life. 
When you and Sister Clara found me, good 
Mother, sick in that dirty garret, I invented 
the tale that made you take pity on me and 
fetch me here. Now go away all of you, 
and leave me to die like a dog, as I 
deserve. ’ ’ 

But they did not go away. Overcoming 
the horror that her fearful story had caused, 
as well as that excited by her physical 
condition, true to their name and vocation, 
they redoubled their kindly efforts for her 
comfort, and besought her, by the infinite 
mercy of God, to make her peace with Him. 
Prayers and tears were alike useless. Once 
more she began to rave and moan, crying 
out that as she had sinned by the tongue, so 
was she punished; and reiterating again and 
again that she was a double murderer, and 
that for the suicide there could be no 
salvation. 


THE STORY OP A WRONGED PRIEST. 


275 


The good Mother sent for a priest, but 
the sight of him seemed to intensify her 
agony. He retired to an anteroom, where 
he prayed fervently. The good Mother 
represented to her that God had shown her 
special kindness in having placed oppor- 
tunities in the way of her repentance; but 
all in vain. Her sufferings soon became 
intense; she called repeatedly for water, 
with which the Sisters moistened her lips. 
“My tongue is on fire! — my tongue is on 
fire!” she would repeat after each slow, 
painful draught. It was at the solemn 
hour of midnight that she cried out, after 
a long silence: “See — see! he is standing 
there — at the foot of the bed! He is looking 
at me. His eyes are sad, sad, sad! Ah! I 
can not bear it!” Covering her face with her 
hands, her voice died away in inarticulate 
murmurs; her breath came more slowly, 
and those who knelt beside her scarcely 
knew the moment of her departure. So 
she passed to judgment. 

This sorrowful history would not be 
complete without adverting to a circum- 
stance which occurred several years later, 
and which may serve as a possible clue to 
the fate of Father D. The story of the 


276 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

dead woman was again brought to the 
notice of the Bishop by the priest who had 
been present during her last hours on earth. 
That her former relation of the events 
which had occurred had impressed' itself 
upon the Bishop’s mind was evident from 
the fact that he said he had been unable to 
trace the unfortunate priest after a period 
of five years spent in a monastery at R, 
He had obtained whatever slight informa- 
tion he possessed from Father Z., an aged 
priest who had been a close friend of the 
former Bishop. The present incumbent had 
appeared anxious to dismiss the subject as 
one too painful to be dwelt upon, and the 
clergyman went his way. But the narra- 
tion had so impressed itself upon his mind, 
and his sympathies had been so deeply 
aroused by the terrible recital, that he lost 
no opportunity of relating it to his brother 
priests; hoping against hope that the 
victim of fiendish hate and revenge might 
still be alive, and that it might thus be 
possible to make some slight reparation 
for the injustice that had been done. A few 
of these had heard a faint echo of the 
original story; but most of • them were 
young men like himself, unfamiliar with 


THE STORY OF A WRONGED PRIEST. 277 


what had occurred in a generation now 
passed away. 

But one evening, after he had told the 
story to a friend — a clergyman also, who 
had just returned from Kurope, where he 
had spent two years on sick leave, — the. 
latter asked, in a tone full of interest: 

“What was the baptismal name of that 
priest? Did you ever know it ? “ 

“It was David, “ replied his friend. 

“Any middle name?” 

“John, — David John. Rather an odd 
combination.” 

“I think your perseverance has been 
rewarded,” said the other. “Now listen 
to my story. Two years ago — a short 
time, I should judge, before the occurrence 
of the final event in the sad story you have 
told me, — I was travelling in the west of 
Scotland, in a portion of country but 
sparsely settled and very poor. I stopped 
one night with the parish priest of ly. , with 
whom I went next morning to visit the 
graveyard, a rough and primitive spot. As 
we mused and talked alternately, he pointed 
to a newly-made grave, saying: ‘There 
lies a man who had some kind of a history, 
I know, but I was never able to discover 


278 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

what it was. He was a countryman of 
yours; well-read, well-bred, and with that 
indefinable something about him which 
convinced me from the first that he had 
once studied for the priesthood. He came 
here footsore and weary, his clothes in rags, 
his shoes scarcely holding together on his 
swollen feet. I was a young man at the 
time; he may have been a few years older, 
— say five and thirty at most. When I 
questioned him he said: “Father, I have 
committed no crime, but I am a wanderer 
on the face of the earth. If you will allow 
me to remain here, in any capacity whatever, 
free to spend my leisure hours before the 
Tabernacle, I will serve you until my 
death.” I was much impressed by his 
manner and evident sincerity. Our old 
sexton and gravedigger had recently died, 
so I took him in. Very soon he began to 
teach the children while the schoolmaster 
was ill; and when that place became vacant, 
he filled it also. He was loved by young 
and old. He spent all his spare hours in 
the church, occupying a little room in the 
belfry. Often in the night I have stolen 
out, to find him kneeling before the Blessed 
Sacrament. I called him David; the vil- 


THE STORY OF A. WRONGED PRIEST. 279 


lagers, Mr. David. I never knew his full 
name until the day he died. Then I asked 
him what it was. He looked at me in a 

strange, sad way, and said: “It is D ; 

David John D .“ I questioned him 

no further, though I should have been well 
pleased to know his history.’ 

“I stooped and read the name, roughly 
inscribed upon a triangular slab of granite, 
uncut and unpolished as it had come from 
the quarries near by, — a rude cross, the 
name followed by the customary R. I. P. 
That was all. I said: ‘And you know 
nothing more?’ — ‘Nothing,’ replied the old 
priest; ‘save that, whatever his former 
history may have been, here he lived as a 
saint, and here as a saint he died.’ ’’ 

My story is finished. All that is known 
or conjectured has been told. The rest 
awaits the Judgment Day. 


XX. 


MORE THAN BROTHERS. 

It was in the early days of the Home 
for the Aged at C. that two old men came 
one morning to apply for admission. 
They were Irish; seemingly about the same 
age, feeble both, and rheumatic; very 
poorly but cleanly dressed; of similar 
height, and not unlike in features and 
complexion. Confident of a welcome, they 
had brought their small earthly possessions 
tied up in red handkerchiefs, — a touching 
and pathetic sight, as they stood quietly 
waiting while the good Mother put some 
necessary questions. 

“Are you brothers?” she asked, address- 
ing herself to the one who had been 
spokesman. 

“No,” answered the other, casting an 
affectionate look at his companion; “but 
we are more. Dinny here — ’ ’ 

“None of that now, — none of that!” 

interrupted his companion, hurriedly. 

280 


MORE THAN BROTHERS. 


281 


“You won’t forget your promise? You’ve 
kept it these ten years, an’ you won’t 
break it now? I’ll do the talkin’; I’m 
better at it than you,” he continued, with 
a smile, turning once more to the good 
Mother. “We’re not brothers, Sister,” 
he said. “Sure he’s a far better-lookin’ 
man than me, an’ different altogether. 
You’ll soon find that out for yourself when 
you have us here settled. ’ ’ 

“He looks more feeble,” replied the 
good Mother, turning again to the other; 
but even as she looked she became aware 
of another difference, which was more 
evident as she regarded them both. 

“Dinny” seemed to interpret her 
thought. 

“You see, ma’am,” he said, “his two 
hands are crippled badly; he can’t do much 
to earn his bit or sup, an’ it’s that way 
always with him. But I’m strong enough 
mostly to potter about the garden, if you’ll 
have me, — barrin’ the times when the 
rheumatiz lays me up. But I’ll do double 
work after. ’ ’ 

When they took up their little bundles 
to carry them to the dormitory the good 
Mother said: 


282 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


“One is Dinny, and the other?” 

“Michael,” was the reply. 

“Oh, no. Sister!” interposed Dinny. 
“’Tis Michael, of course; but he’s very 
different. If you’d call him Mr. McManus 
’twould be more fittin’.” 

“Tut, tut, Dinny!” said the other. “If 
it is the custom, why should I not be called 
by my first name? Call me what you 
please, ma’am,” he said, cheerfully. 
“Michael is not a name to be ashamed of.” 

“Det it be Michael, then,” replied the 
Sister. “You are all our children here, 
and it is our desire that you consider your- 
selves as such; and you are to address me 
as ‘good Mother.’ ” 

“It is a very comfortin’ sound,” said 
Dinny, as he trudged along the corridor 
to his destination. “An’ I’m sure you’ll 
act the mother to us, though we’re twice 
as old as you, — maybe more.” 

When they had deposited their belong- 
ings on their respective beds — which, to 
Dinny’s great satisfaction, were placed side 
by side, — the good Mother offered to 
conduct them to the men’s sitting-room, 
in order to introduce them to those who 
were to be their future companions. This 


MORE THAN BROTHERS. 


283 


ceremony accomplished, after seeing his 
friend comfortably seated near the stove, 
Dinny followed the good Mother to the 
door, and into the of&ce on the opposite 
side of the hall. 

‘‘Good Mother,” he said, — not without 
some timidity of manner, — “I’d like a 
private word with you, if you can spare me 
a minute. ’ ’ 

‘‘Certainly,” was the reply. ‘‘Be seated, 
Dinny.” And the good Mother, taking 
a chair herself, indicated another to the 
old man. 

‘‘Thank you kindly, ma’am!” Dinny 
said; ‘‘but I was taught not to sit in the 
company of my betters, — ladies especially. 
I’ll be more comfortable standin’, an’ I’ll 
not keep you long. ’Tis a word in regard 
to Master — Mr. McManus I’d like to say 
to you, ma’am. He’s different from me — 
very different, and I’d like if there could 
be a little more consideration shown him.” 

‘‘I don’t understand you, Dinny,” said 
the good Mother. ‘‘All are alike here — all 
are well treated. To be sure, in a place 
like this there are some who have at one 
time been better off in the world’s goods 
than others, — better educated and so on; 


284 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


but when they come here all are on a level. 
Do you not see that if we were to make 
a distinction it would naturally serve to 
create dissatisfaction, even dissension, 
among the old people?” 

“What you say is true, ma’am, — very 
true,” said Dinny, with a sigh; “an’ I 
don’t doubt but it’ll be all right. ’Tisn’t 
Am that would want it, ma’am, — not Am. 
He’s the humblest an’ the meekest soul you 
ever had to deal with. ’Tis only me, 
ma’am, that thought, maybe if you knew 
his rearin’ an’ who his people were, you’d 
see it for yourself. Sister, I’ll be honest 
with you. He’s a gentleman, — an Irish 
gentleman, no less. Do you know what 
that means in the old country?” 

The good Mother smiled. “I think I 
do, Dinny,” she said. “And, while I do 
not doubt that your friend is an exception 
to the general rule, because his appearance 
and manner indicate as much, I have found 
the class of whom you speak more difficult 
to deal with than any other. I will tell you 
why. As a matter of fact, they have 
generally come to misfortune through their 
own fault, and their morals as well as 
manners have suffered in proportion. Bear 


MORE THAN BROTHERS. 


285 


well in mind, Dinny, that it is only poverty 
that is recognized as a pass- word here, — 
poverty and good behavior. It is not what 
a man has been but what he is that recom- 
mends him to the Home of the Aged. If, 
as I do not doubt, your friend is what you 
represent him to be, he is still a gentleman, 
in spite of misfortune.” 

Dinny sighed again. “I suppose you 
are right, ma’am,” he said; “an’ we’ll 
leave it in your hands. Those inside seem 
a decent lot, an’ I’m sure he’ll be well 
treated. But I’ve somethin’ else to say, 
ma’am,” he continued, drawing a small 
purse from his pocket, from which he 
counted twenty dollars in bills, dimes, and 
nickels. “There’s a man beyond the river 
owes me ten dollars. His father died not 
long since, an’ when the accounts are 
settled up he’ll be sure to pay, — he’s an 
honest man. That money I’ll present you 
for yourself, good Mother, as a token that 
I’m not ungrateful for your kindness in 
takin’ us in. But this money that I’m 
lay in’ in your hand now I’ve scraped and 
hoarded this long time, unbeknown to him. 
An’ do you know why? For his burial, 
good Mother. I don’t care what becomes 


286 CHRONICLfES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’* 

of me” (here he gulped down a great sob); 
but ’twould break my heart an’ his if he’d 
be to be put in the ‘poor lot,’ with the out- 
casts and the criminals and those that have 
no friends. Will you promise to give him 
a decent burial for this? Can you do it 
for the money?” The old man’s voice 
trembled, tears stood in his eyes. 

“Yes, I can and I will, Dinny,” replied 
the good Mother, much affected. ‘‘And I 
will arrange about it at once, in case I 
should die myself or be removed. ’ ’ 

‘‘An’ you’il not say a word to him till 
the right time comes, an’ he dyin’ ? — for 
I feel it in my bones I’ll go before him; 
though I’d rather ’twould be the other 
way — for reasons,” said the old man. 

“All shall be as you wish,” answered 
the good Mother. “But now what of 
yourself, Dinny?” 

He shook his head and turned away. 

“After all, what does it matter?” said 
the good Mother. “All are laid in conse- 
crated ground. I am sure many a fervent 
prayer is said over those graves; for our 
people have a kind heart for the loneliness 
of poverty.” 

“True, true,” replied Dinny. “Once 


MORE THAN BROTHERS. 


287 


the thought of a pauper’s grave was terrible 
to me; but I don’t mind it any more, since 
I know I’ve saved him from it.” 

Wondering what could be the mysterious 
tie that united the two old men, yet deli- 
cately forbearing to question Dinny further, 
the good Mother dismissed him. 

True to his promise, Dinny gave the 
extra ten dollars to the good Mother as 
soon as he received it. 

Both men soon became great favorites 
at the Home, rendering cheerfully all the 
assistance their age and infirmities would 
allow. Michael, as he was called, was 
very quiet and reserved, though polite and 
pleasant to all. As soon as it became 
known among the old men that he had 
received a good education, he became 
reader and amanuensis to the others. Old 
copies of The Pilot and occasional daily 
papers were thus perused from beginning 
to end; while gradually and insensibly, by 
reason of his superior knowledge and other 
qualifications, he began to receive the 
“consideration” for which poor Dinny had 
pleaded at first. He was frequently ad- 
dressed as “Mr. McManus” instead of plain 
“Michael”; was the arbiter in all disputes; 


288 CHEONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

tacitly acknowledged as the one entitled to 
greatest respect and prominence among the 
fifty then resident at the Home. Never did 
ruler bear honors more affably or meekly; 
never did monarch possess more loyal 
subjects. And Dinny also shared in this 
honor and distinction; for the “considera- 
tion” shown his friend afforded him much 
greater satisfaction than it did the recipient. 
The two old men had not a single outside 
friend or visitor; yet none had better filled 
tobacco pouches, or more serviceable pipes, 
— all furnished by their kindly companions. 

A year and a half thus passed, and in the 
middle of an intensely cold winter several 
of the old men were stricken with pneu- 
monia; among these was Dinny, and it 
soon became evident that his days were 
numbered. His companion watched over 
him with the greatest solicitude, refusing 
to take any rest night or day. The poor 
old man was unconscious nearly all the 
time, but the day before he died he began 
to recognize his surroundings. His eye 
brightened when he saw his friend. He was 
ready and willing to die, save for having 
to leave his other self. 

“Sure I hoped you’d go first,” he said. 


MORE THAN BROTHERS. 


289 


wistfully; “so that you wouldn’t be alone 
entirely, an’ I’d have the sweet privilege 
of offerin’ a prayer at the grave-side when- 
ever I’d like.” 

Here the good Mother made a sign to 
Mr. McManus. “He will relapse into 
unconsciousness perhaps,” she said, “even 
before the priest can arrive. Say what you 
have to say, if there be anything.” With 
that she prepared to retire, but Mr. 
McManus motioned her to remain. 

“Good Mother,” he said, “it is fitting 
that you should hear all that is to be said. 
I wish all the world could hear it. This 
dear man is my foster-brother; we were 
nursed at the same breast. When he came 
to this country forty years ago, young, 
hopeful, and strong, I also was a young 
and healthy man. My story is a sad one, 
— too sad to tell, good Mother. Enough 
to say that, through no fault of my own, 
I found myself, after a series of terrible 
misfortunes, an exile in a strange land — 
poor, friendless, unknown. I will frankly 
confess to you that I was about to take my 
own life when I accidentally met Dinny in 
the street and recognized him. He did 
not know me, but I soon made myself 


290 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

known. He took me home with him to 
his poor abode, — so poor indeed that he 
could scarcely find covering or food for 
himself; but of what he had, and of what 
he earned during the long year that I was 
bed- ridden, -he gave me the largest share. 
And so we went along for nine years or 
more, until we came here. I think I am 
not mistaken, good Mother, when I say 
that the keenest of all our misfortunes in 
his sight was that he could not show me 
what he considered the respect due my 
former position in the old country we both 
once called home. That, good Mother, 
and the fear that when the end came I 
should have to lie in a pauper’s grave — ” 
Here the old man’s voice broke, and throw- 
ing himself on his knees beside the dying 
bed of his faithful companion, he seized the 
old withered hands in his own. 

Dinny’s eyes were closed, but tears 
coursed slowly down his cheeks. 

“Dinny!” cried the other, passionately, 
— “Dinny, do youhearme? ’’ 

“I do. Master Mike, — I do!” said the 
sick man in a low tone. “Don’t fret that 
way. Don’t talk to me that way, Michael 
dear. What less could I do than I done for 


MORE THAN BROTHERS. 


291 


you? Ah! weren’t you a great comfort to 
me as well ? ’ ’ 

“Listen!” said the other. “I know what 
dread you had for a pauper’s grave for 
yourself. But you won’t lie in one, 
Dinny, — you won’t lie in one. You 
mind when I told you my watch was stolen ? 
— ’twas the last thing I had left of the 
good old times. I stole it myself, Dinny, 
and I got twenty-five dollars for it; and it’s 
here in my vest pocket, Dinny, and it will 
get you a decent grave. ’ ’ 

The dying man laughed a low, soft, 
pleased, melodious laugh. “O Master 
Mike!” he said, looking up at the smiling 
face of the good Mother. “’Tisapairof 
rogues we were. But I’ll die happy, for 
we’ll lie together now.” 

It was reserved till later to inform Mr. 
McManus of the meaning of Dinny ’s 
exultant words. The priest was not too 
late to prepare the devout soul to meet 
its Maker. Dinny died next day, quietly, 
painlessly, after exacting a promise from 
his friend to tell the good Mother ‘ ‘all the 
niisfortunate story.” But he had not the 
opportunity to do so; for the day after 
Dinny was laid in the vault — the ground 


292 CHEONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


being covered with snow — Mr. McManus 
was taken with the same disease that had 
carried him off, and he died after three 
days’ illness. 

The story remained untold; but as much 
of it as was known so touched the heart 
of a charitable patron of the Home that he 
insisted on choosing a pleasant site for the 
twin graves, where, in the first mild spring 
weather, the friends and foster-brothers 
were laid. And there today they lie, under- 
a gnarled old willow-tree, a simple wooden 
cross above them, — faithful in life, in death 
not divided. Another instance of the 
beautiful self-sacrifice and devotion so 
characteristic of the Irish race. 



XXL 

Tun I^ITTLK WHITK OI.D WOMAN. 

One beautiful summer evening, about 
five o’clock, on returning from town, I 
found the children gathered around an 
old white-haired woman who was sitting 
on the piazza. 

“O mamma, see the little white old 
woman!” whispered the youngest, as I 
reached the top of the steps. “She is just 
like a fairy. See her little sharp black 
eyes; and she is so funny.” 

She was indeed a curious-looking old 
creature, as she leaned back composedly 
in the great rustic chair, fanning herself 
with a clean white sunbonnet which she 
had taken from her head. Her skin was 
of a pallid whiteness, intensified by the 
blackness of her small but remarkably 
brilliant eyes. Her hair, which seemed 
still abundant, was white as flax. About 
her shoulders she wore a little white flannel 
shawl, shrunken from many washings, but 

293 


294 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.*’ 

scrupulously clean. Beneath this could be 
seen a spotless cambric jacket, or short 
gown, confined at the waist by a long 
well-starched and well-ironed white apron. 
Her skirt had originally been of some spotted 
light calico, but was now faded almost 
white. It was very short, betraying a 
pair of old-fashioned stockings and a pair 
of good, stout, low-cut shoes. Her whole 
appearance left the impression of spotless 
cleanliness. She looked at least seventy 
years of age. 

“Good-evenin’, ma’am I’’ she said, as I 
approached, without waiting for me to 
speak. ‘ ‘The little children is havin’ great 
sport out of me. I’m tellin’ them of an 
accident I had the day-losin’ my bit of 
change. I was wonderin’ how I’d foot it 
home down the avenue an’ through the 
town across the bridge; for I haven’t a 
penny to go aither by bridge or ferry. I 
was loath to ax the loan of a dime of any 
one; but the children looked so cute 
playin’ among the trees that I thought I’d 
make bould an’ ax them would they call 
their mamma, an’ maybe she’d loan me 
enough to take me over the river some 
way. Wherever there does be a lot of 


THE LITTLE WHITE OLD WOMAN. 


295 


little ones, there you’ll find kind hearts.” 

I opened my pocket-book at once and 
put two nickels in her hand; for, though 
quite familiar with the old trick of “Please 
give me three cents to cross the ferry: I’ve 
lost my ticket,” it never occurred to me 
to place the request of the old woman in 
the same category. 

“Thank ye, ma’am,” she said; “an’ 
may God increase your store! You have 
a fine little family. ’Tis visitin’ a friend on 
the East Hill I was the day, an’ had my 
money tied in the corner of my handkercher. 
I thought to walk to the foot of the avenue 
an’ take the car there. ’Twas a good 
handkercher too. I dislike to be without 
a handkercher an’ the day so warm. The 
sweat does be rollin’ off my face an’ I 
walkin’. Would ye have an ould one ye 
could give me, ma’am? I’d like one of 
the master’s: them small ones is no good 
at all.” 

Her simplicity amused me. I dispatched 
one of the children for a partially worn 
handkerchief of their father’s, which I gave 
to the old woman. 

“That’ll do fine,” she said, shaking 
it out and eying it all over. “There’s only 


296 CHRONICLES OF ‘‘THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


a pin-point of a hole in this end. Oh, 
’twill do fine, barrin’ the letter” — pointing 
to the initial in one corner. ‘ ‘Some might 
think I stole it. There’s mane people 
about, ma’am. My own name’s Cunning- 
ham” (she pronounced it Cunnigum). 
Replacing the sunbonnet on her head, she 
arose to go. Then, as if struck by a 
sudden thought, she said, wistfully: 
“Maybe they’d give me a cup of tay in the 
kitchen. They’ll be gettin’ the supper ready 
by now. I lives my lone, an’ I’m dead 
tired, an’ ’twill be late when I gets home.” 

“Certainly you shall have a cup of tea,” 
I answered. “You say you live alone. I 
hope you are not obliged to work at your 
age.” 

She looked at me sharply. 

“I works hard — in my own way. But 
I has a trifle cornin’ to me every month. 
I’m not badly off, ma’am, thank ye!” 

Having sent her to the kitchen in charge 
of one of the children, I went upstairs. 
When I came down to the piazza again she 
was about to descend the steps. Seeing 
me, she looked around; and, pointing to a 
group of red chimneys in the valley below, 
she asked: 


THE LITTLE WHITE OLD WOMAN. 


297 


“What place is that, ma’am? ” 

“That is the Home for the Aged, kept 
by the Little Sisters of the Poor, ’ ’ I said. 

“What!” she exclaimed, hurriedly and 
as if in some trepidation. “Would there 
be any danger of any of them cornin’ about 
at this hour? They’re great vagabonds, 
so they are.” 

“Oh, you must not say that!” I replied. 
“You can not know them at all, or you 
would not call them vagabonds.” 

“Faith, I knows them only too well,” 
she retorted; “an’ I meets them often. 
They’re the bane of my life, so they are. 
First try in’ to find out wasn’t I poor, an’ 
wouldn’t I come to them; an’ now inter- 
ferin’ an’ even threatenin’ me whenever I 
meets them. Too well I knows them. 
Sure they do be turnin’ up everywhere I 
goes. An’ that’s where they has their 
Home, is it? ’Tis many a long day again 
before I’ll take this route; for I’d rather 
meet an army of sojers than any two of 
them. An’ ’twas a good day’s work I 
made of it, too,” she added; “bad cess to 
them!” 

And, without further salutation, she 
picked her way down the steps. Before 


298 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


she reached the pavement, I saw her stoop 
down among the bushes; and when I 
caught my last glimpse of her she was 
laboring slowly down the road with a large 
covered basket on her arm. 

I began to suspect that “the little white 
old woman” was a professional beggar; and 
this suspicion was confirmed by Mary the 
cook, a woman of excellent heart but 
strictly honest principles, 

“I don’t like that old woman, ma’am,” 
vShe remarked. “I think she has a dale of 
impidence; an’ she’s next door to a thief, 
besides. ’ ’ 

“Why, Mary?” I inquired. “What did 
she say or do ? ” 

“Well, I sat her down there at the side- 
table with a clane white napin foreninst 
her — she looked so clane herself, — an’ a 
fine cup of tay, an’ a bit of cold ham and 
mustard; for the victuals weren’t cooked. 
She sipped the tay, and looked all about 
her till she spied the custard coolin’ through 
the pantry door beyant; an’ says she, 
pushin’ the plate away from her; ‘I don’t 
care for coorse food: couldn’t ye give me 
a bit of the puddin’?’ — ‘No,’ says I, ‘I 
couldn’t. I’ll not spoil the looks of it for 


THE LITTLE WHITE OLD WOMAN. 


299 


the like of ye. If ye were to the fore an’ 
we atin” says I, ‘you’d have your share; 
but it won’t be broke for ye, old lady.’ 
After that, ma’am, she ate her food con- 
tented; but when she got up to go away, 
she came over to the stove where I was 
seasonin’ the soup, an’ says she: ‘My 
honest girl, have ye a grain of tay or a 
handful of sugar ye’d give a poor ould 
woman?’ — ‘Did the mistress tell ye to ask 
me?’ says I, turnin’ about on her. — ‘No,’ 
says she, ‘of coorse she didn’t; but ’twill 
never be missed.’ — ‘Never!’ says I, ‘while 
Mary Burns — an’ that’s my name — is to 
the fore in this kitchen. Shame on ye, 
an’ be off with ye,’ says I, ‘for a mane 
ould woman!’ An’ what do ye think she 
did, ma’am, as she went out of the door? 
She shook her fist in my face. That 
crathur is a great ould rogue, — I’ll lay my 
life on it.” 

Confidences exchanged among the ser- 
vants in the neighborhood proved that 
Mary was right. The old woman had 
made the tour of the avenue with the plea 
of having lost a dime; her age and cleanly 
appearance having excited such sympathy 
that she had everywhere obtained the 


300 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

desired relief. She never returned, and for 
some months we heard no more of “the 
little white old woman.” 

One day, however, the papers were filled 
with accounts of a clever trick which had 
been practised by a very old woman, solicit- 
ing small loans all over the city. Some 
one had followed her across the river, 
where she really resided in a tiny house on 
the outskirts of C . Further investiga- 

tion discovered that she was in the habit 
of selling handkerchiefs, shoes, gloves, and 
other articles of clothing, to second-hand 
dealers in the city, thereby realizing quite 
a nice sum from her collections. Many 
valuable trinkets and some jewelry were 
found in her room; and, shortly after her 
confession, some were recovered from pawn- 
brokers. 

It was also learned that with the ill- 
gotten gains which she had acquired in 
various cities of the United States, going 
from one to another as she exhausted the 
resources of each, she had educated and 
provided for her daughter, a supposedly 
respectable woman residing in a small town 
on the Ohio River, married to a railroad 
engineer, and living in a comfortable house 


THE LITTLE WHITE OLD WOMAN. 


301 


presented to her by her mother. She 
denied all complicity in the affair, refusing 
at first to see her mother; and nothing was 
proven against her. Thus the old woman, 
left to the mercy of the law, without friends 
or paid counsel, was sentenced to imprison- 
ment for three years. There was no doubt 
in my mind but that the culprit and our 
former visitor were one and the same, the 
description and names being identical. 

Several years passed; and while visiting 
a friend in one of the Eastern States, I went 
to the Home of the Tittle Sisters of the 
Poor. As I had a letter of introduction 

from the good Mother in C , they gave 

me the freedom of the place, making me 
very welcome. One day I came upon an 
aged woman sitting on a bench under a 
tree in the sunniest part of the garden. She 
was the perfection of cleanliness; and as 
her eyes — small, black, bird-like and brill- 
iant — met my own, I thought I recognized 
her. From the indifferent look with which 
she glanced at me, I saw that the recog- 
nition was not mutual. But how could 
that have been expected, as she had seen 
me but once, and there was nothing 
remarkable about my personality ? 


302 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

Although I know that the Little Sisters 
often stretch a point with regard to the lines 
of respectability to be drawn about their 
protegh, I had an idea that, under ordinary 
circumstances, they did not give shelter to 
persons who had served a sentence in the 
penitentiary; and I felt certain that the old 
creature had used her sharp wits to good 
effect in order to gain admittance to the 
Home. So it was with an expectant 
curiosity which was not disappointed that 
I asked, in a casual tone: 

“How long have you been here, grand- 
mother?” 

“Better than two years, ma’am,” was 
the answer. “An’ I’ll not be very much 
longer in it, I’m thinkin’; for I’m an ould 
woman an’ a lonely one.” 

‘ ‘ How old ? ” I inquired. 

“Turnin’ seventy-seven,” she said. 

“Have you no friends or relatives? ” 

“One daughter, ma’am,” she replied, 
bitterly; “but she forsook her poor ould 
mother when she fell into sorrow.” 

I was now assured of her identity; and 
I said, at hazard: 

“Your face seems familiar to me. Did 
you ever live in the West? ” 


THE LITTLE WHITE OLD WOMAN. 


303 


She looked at me fixedly for the space 
of a second. My soul quailed before her. 

“Never was I out of New York State 
since I come from Ireland. There’s many 
faces alike in the world, ma’am,” she said. 

“That’s true. You like being with the 
Little Sisters ? ” I inquired, changing the 
subject. 

The small, beady eyes sought mine again, 
as she answered curtly: 

“Indeed then I don’t, ma’am. But ould 
age an’ poverty forced them upon me. 
What I likes is a neat little room to myself, 
where I can be in peace an’ quiet; an’ a 
neat goffered cap of lawn or muslin cambric, 
not one of them ould hoods; an’ a fresh 
white apron every day, instead of them 
checkered blue ones, — that’s what I’d like. ’ ’ 

I remembered a crisp white apron worn 
by a neat old woman one day five years 
ago, and I could not repress a smile. 

“Why d’ye laugh, ma’am?” sheasked, 
rather sharply. 

“I once knew an old woman who looked 
very much like you,” I answered; “and 
she, too, was fond of clean white finery.” 

“Well, it w^asn’t me, ma’am,” she said, 
darting fire from her beady eyes. “An’, 


304 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


whoever ye are or wherever ye come from, 
ye never saw me before this blessed day 
of the world. An’ don’t ye go for to say 
ye did naither,” she continued, speaking 
very fast; “unless ye’d be that mane that 
ye’d try to get a poor crathur out of a 
home. I sits here my lone all the day, 
when they lets me; an’ I does be thinkin’, 
thinkin’ all the time. I only wants to be 
left alone, ma’am, — please lave me alone.” 

She looked up at me fearfully, and my 
heart melted toward her. 

“Have no fear of me,” I said, kindly. 
“I would not disturb a hair of your head. 
I am glad to see that you have found a 
refuge in your last days.” 

I dropped a quarter in her hand. She 
clutched it silently, but looked up with 
grateful eyes, from which I saw her wipe 
tears a moment later. 

At the turn of the path I met one of the 
lyittle Sisters. 

“I see you have been talking to poor 
Mrs. McGeoghegan,” she said. “Is she 
not a clean old creature ? When I see 
them dainty and particular about them- 
selves as she is I often wish we could have a 
separate departnjent for that kind of people,” 


THE LITTLE WHITE OLD WOMAN. 


305 


“Yes, it seems a pity that you can not,” 
I remarked. “You say her name is Mc- 
Geoghegan? Has she always lived here- 
abouts ? ’ ’ 

“I think so,” was the reply. “One of 
the Passionist Fathers recommended her. 
He had known her a long time; and, for 
some reasons which he did not mention, 
considered her a great object of charity.” 

I said no more; but, reflecting that the 
Passionists travel much and far from 
East to West, and that there are none 
more Christlike in their imitation of 
Him whom they follow, I fell more than 
ever convinced that the poor wasted 
creature sitting under the maple- tree was 
in truth our “little white old woman.” 



!: 




XXII. 

“MARRIE:d KI.IZA.” 

“Why do they call you ‘Married 
Eliza’ ? ” I asked of an old woman who 
was busy training the morning-glory vines 
at the back of the kitchen. 

She paused to bite off a bit of cord before 
answering. 

“Do not do that,” I said. “You will 
break your teeth. ’ ’ 

“Sure I have my mouth full of them, 
ma’am,” she replied, showing me a set of 
which any young girl might be proud — 
strong, sharp, and white, without a flaw. 
“I bites everything with them, cracks 
hickory-nuts and all kinds. I never feels 
old. Do ye see my hair ? ” she continued, 
pulling off her sunbonnet and showing me 
an abundant growth of crisp black locks, 
growing low on her forehead, with scarcely 
a grey hair among them. But the face was 
a network of wrinkles, and I knew she 
must be seventy at least. 

306 


MARRIED ELIZA. 


307 






“How old are you, Eliza? ” I asked. 

“Nearin’ seventy-five,” she said. “But 
I don’t feel my age, not a bit. I wouldn’t 
come to the Home for a long time after the 
Sisters asked me. We were great friends 
always, ma’am. Never a week but they’d 
drop in on me, and never a week but I had 
my quarter 'of a dollar ready for them. At 
the first beginnin’ they’d try to play off 
and not come in; but that hurt my feelin’s, 
and they kept on cornin’ when they saw it. 
Whatever beggin’ I’d deny, I always had 
a heart for the poor old men and women 
forced to spend their last days with 
strangers, on charity. No one knows 
either when ’twill come to their turn,” she 
said, moving back a step to admire her 
work. Then, turning her cheery face full 
upon me, she went on, with a roguish flash 
of her bright black eye: “But you were 
askin’ why they called me ‘Married Eliza.’ 
'Tis because I was four times married, 
ma’am; while the most of them is content 
with one trial, or maybe two.” 

“Four times!” I ejaculated. “Your 
marriages must have been fortunate to 
have induced you to try that lottery so 
often. ’ ’ 


308 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“Sure ’tis a lottery, and that’s what it 
is,” was the rejoinder. “I wasn’t to say 
fortunate, neither was I misfortunate 
altogether; for I reared thirty- two childher, 
ma’am, in my day, and not one of them my 
own. I had never a child of my own, 
thanks be to God!’’ 

“Come, sit here on the bench and tell me 
all about it; won’t you, Bliza?” said I, now 
thoroughly interested. 

“That’s what I mean to do, ma’am,” she 
replied, as ' she accepted my invitation. 
“’Tis a queer story out and out; and it’s 
often been borne upon me, seein’ that, 
married and all as I was four times, withoiU 
any likin' for the state of life, but seein’ it 
forced upon me, that the Almighty chooses 
every back for every burthen. 

“I was only fifteen the first venture I 
made, ma’am — or, rather, my grandfather 
and grandmother made it for me. My own 
father and mother died when I was a baby. 
I remember well the day I came in from the 
fields to my dinner, and the strange man 
standin’ on the floor. ' Sure I had never so 
much as thought* of any one courtin’ me. 
I was a great hand for little childher always; 
and they’d follow me about all over beggin’ 


“married ELIZA. 


309 


for stories, and havin’ me make play toys 
with bits of paper and tin and all. ‘This 
is the colleen,' says my grandfather; and 
the strange man took my hand. ‘She’s a 
fine handful of a girl,’ says he. And 
before I knew where I was the priest was 
in it, and we were married, and off to 
Drumskinla, forty miles away. ’Twas 
somethin’ to do with a debt my grandfather 
owed him, and that’s the way they settled 
it. He was more than fifty years, and had 
five little childher at home. The oldest 
was ten, maybe; the baby but three months. 

“Tim Daily was a good enough husband 
to me, but it’s a hard life I had doin’ for 
the young ones; though they were very 
fond of me, and I of them. Ten years we 
lived together, till he died. The famine 
came then, and times was dreadful hard. 
Many went to America in them days. My- 
self and the oldest girl and boy thought it the 
best plan. We left the three younger ones 
with some of their relations, and promised 
to send for them. Nora and myself got 
work in one family, and lived in it three 
years. We put the boy to a trade, payin’ 
his board between us till he’d be out of 
his time. Poor Jamesie, he took the 


3l0 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS/* 

cholera when it was bad in ’50, and died 
after a few hours’ sickness. 

“After we had his buryin’ paid for and 
a few pounds saved, we sent for the other 
childher. I took a couple of rooms, and 
when they came over had a place for them 
to lie down. The three of them went out 
to service, and soon after that Nora married. 
She only lived a year, and left me two little 
twins to mind. And it’s left to me they 
were indeed; for the poor father was killed 
a short time after in the rollin’ mill, along 
with five others that lived in the buildin’. 

“There was a man there that had a 
fine wife, but she died and left five small 
childher. He was drawin’ good wages; 
and, seein’ how well I did for my own, he 
bothered and coaxed me till I married him; 
and that made ten, countin’ the three that 
was livin’ out. They weren’t for it at all. 
But I reminded them how I did the same 
for themselves when they were poor little 
motherless creatures, and they hadn’t much 
to say again it after that. Well, they were 
all good childher, and their father was as 
kind to the twins as he was to his own. 
One by one the girls I brought out from 
Ireland married and went out West. I 


MAERIED ELIZA.' 


311 


never heard tale or tidin’ s of any of them 
since. ’ ’ 

“And the twins?” Tasked. “Did they 
do nothing to provide for them? ” 

“Oh, the creatures! how could they?” 
Eliza replied. “Who could expect it of 
them? Anyhow, the twins always seemed 
nearer to me than they did to their mother’s 
people. Bill Brady — that was my second 
husband — was a consumptive man, and he 
had to give up workin’ in the gas house on 
account of it, and do any odd job he’d find 
about. Times was harder after that, 
though a couple of the little girls went 
livin’ out. When he died it was very close 
livin’ with us. 

“About the same time that Bill died 
Mary Buckley died. She was the wife of 
the man that rented the buildin’ entire and 
let it out again in rooms. He was a dacint, 
middle-aged man; a little cross now and 
then, but honest and a good Christian. 
Nine childher his wife left him to provide 
for and take care of. Five of them was 
boys, and growin’ a little wild without a 
mother. Nothin’ would do him — ^after a 
dacint time of mournin’ — but that I should 
marry him and take care of his nine along 


312 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’* 

with my own. Three fine rooms he had 
— the choice of the bnildin’, — and they 
were convenient to my own. As I had the 
most care of them since their mother died 
any way, I gave my consent. And I didn’t 
feel the difference, such a fine lot of chil- 
dher they all were. And they minded me 
so well; and some of them, along with my 
own seven, doin’ a little for themselves; 
and the rest of them, down to the smallest, 
helpin’ with the work. I couldn’t tell ye 
which was the best, ma’am, nor which I 
liked best. The boys that were workin’ 
were forever buyin’ me a handkerchief or 
a little shawl or a cap ribbon; and the little 
girls, when they’d come home from their 
places of a Thursday or a Sunday, would 
hand me a dollar or two now and then. 
They were a fine lot of childher; I had 
great comfort with them.” 

“Did you sew and cook and wash for all 
those children, Eliza, without any help?” 

“Why not, ma’am? Of course I did. I 
had all the help they could give me, and I 
was always a good hand at the needle. I’d 
never want any better play than to be 
plannin’ and patchin’ and sewin’. The 
ladies where the girls lived gave me many 


MARRIED ELIZA. 


313 


a half- worn gown, and often trousers and 
jackets to fix over for the boys. Buckley 
was a fine scholar, ma’am; and ’twas often 
and often midnight found him readin’ the 
newspaper or the Lives of the Saints, or 
maybe ‘Shandy Maguire’; and me sewin’, 
while the childher was asleep. ’ ’ 

“And were they not ill sometimes?’’ 

“Not often, ma’am; but if they were, no 
one could take better care of them than me. 
I was always a great hand at nursin’, 
ma’am.’’ 

“I am sure you often found it hard to 
make both ends meet, Eliza, with such a 
large family,’’ I said. 

“I did, I did; but I was always a fine 
hand at makin’ up tasty dishes out of little 
or nothin’. Sure you couldn’t find a 
happier woman in the town while Buckley 
lived. But all good things must have an 
end on this earth, and my cross was cornin’ 
to me. He died very sudden of a Sunday, 
after cornin’ home from ten o’clock Mass.’’ 
After a pause, during which she wiped 
away a tear, Eliza continued: “Buckley 
was such a fine man! He had great taste in 
clothes. He always wore red flannel in the 
winter time for the rheumatism, but there 


314 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

was a kind of knitted soft grey goods that 
does be hangin,’ made up, in the windows 
of the gentlemen’s furnishin’ stores, and 
he had a great mind for that. ‘Eliza,’ he 
said to me many’s the time, ‘I think the 
feel of them soft grey goods would be fine 
on one’s limbs. I’ve a wish for a suit like 
that, Eliza, only they’re too dear.’ 

“The mornin’ after he died I rose early 
and made me way down to Fourth Street, 
and I bought him one of them suits of 
underwear — and I paid seven dollars for 
it, so I did, — and made them put it on him 
in the coffin. ’Twas the least I could do 
for him. He had a grand funeral, eight of 
the finest-lookin’ men of the Holy Family 
parish carryin’ him; and Father Brown 
cried tears down out of his eyes, so he did, 
and he preachin’ the sermon. I paid forty 
dollars for the habit that was on him.” 

“He left you comfortable, then?” I 
said, judging from the lavish expenditure 
of the funeral that he had had something 
laid by. 

“And where would he get the money 
to leave me comfortable, ma’am?” she 
inquired, looking at me with something 
akin to impatience in her black eyes. 


MARRIED ELIZA.' 


3lb 

“Sure he had only his day’s wages. We only 
got our rent free out of the buildin’. No, 
ma’am. It took me and the boys a good 
year to pay the expenses; for I had to go 
out to the house-cleanin’ and washin’ after 
he died. But we managed to get along.” 
“And you still kept the children? ” 

“To be sure I did. What else would 
I do? But some of them was doin’ for 
themselves, and handin’ me some of their 
earnin’ s when they could spare it. But 
little by little they scattered too. One 
went here and one went there, and I lost 
track of the whole of them, only the twins, 
and I reared them to be good scholars.” 
“What became of them, Eliza? ” 

“They went to the war, ma’am, and 
the rebels killed the pair of them,” she 
replied, wiping another tear. 

“And the others, who were married and 
settled — did you hear nothing from them 
or receive nothing from them ? ’ ’ 

“’Twasa strange thing,” she answered, 
reflectively, “and I often thought about it; 
but somehow they all went to distant parts, 
except one of the Buckley girls that 
married a young fellow of the Barnes. 
They were close people, the whole of them. 


316 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

though well off; and he wouldn’t let her 
come nigh me, because I lived in an alley, 
and for fear she’d be given me some- 
thin’. But sure I never blamed her: she 
couldn’t help herself. A woman should 
be said by her husband.” 

“And how did you happen to marry a 
fourth time, Eliza?” 

“Well, it was this way. An old man 
and woman came to the buildin’, and she 
had the consumption. Waitin’ on her and 
tendin’ her, I got to be well acquainted 
with the two of them. She was awful fond 
of him. She had a bit of money — a 
pension — that supported them. He had 
some kind of a pain in his back that kept 
him from hard work. Well, nothin’ would 
do her and she dyin’ but that I’d promise 
to marry him, if he asked me, she was that 
fearful of leavin’ him alone. It wasn’t 
long till he did ask me. I had a great pity 
for him, he was so helpless, and so I 
married him. He was a very delicate 
man, and used to good eatin’ ; his stomach 
was the weakest I ever knew. Many’s the 
time and I out washin’ I’d slip the apple 
or orange I had for my dessert in my pocket, 
and sometimes a bit of pie wrapped up in 


“married ELIZA.” 317 

a paper, or a taste of cake to tempt him. 
And he’d enjoy that, ma’am, — he’d enjoy 
that. A taste of corn beef or cabbage he’d 
never put into his mouth, nor boiled ham 
nor bacon. Nothin’ at all but the tender- 
loin steak could be swallowed in the way 
of meat. He couldn’t touch an egg unless 
he knew it came direct from the country or 
somewhere that they kept chickens. There 
was one woman I washed for and she 
always had a few fresh eggs for me — for 
John. Particular he was about his linen 
too, ma’am. He had the whitest of shirt 
bosoms, ma’am, whatever mendin’ might 
be on the back of them. And his clothes 
— well, I kept them brushed to a nicety; 
he looked like a real gentleman, so he did.” 

“And was there no work of any kind 
that he could do, Eliza?” I asked, as she 
looked at me with a touch of reminiscent 
pride in her eye. 

“Scarcely any, ma’am,” she replied. 
“His back was very troublesome, so I 
managed to do for us both. Sometimes 
he’d get a job of puttin’ in a load of coal 
or wood, or mowin’ a lawn, or scrubbin’ a 
sidewalk; but the poor man would be sure 
to break down in the midst of it, and come 


318 CHRONICLES OF ^‘THE LITTLE SISTERS.’^ 

home to me to go and finish it for him. 
And that was so mortifyin’ to him, ma’am, 
that finally I wouldn’t let him try to work. 
I was able for the both of us. ’ ’ 

* ‘And how long did he live ? ” I asked, 
wondering what period of probation had 
been allotted her with the lazy fellow, 
whom she did not seem to suspect of 
anjdhing worse than feebleness. 

“He’s livin’ yet, for all I know,’’ was 
the cheerful reply. 

“You did not leave him?’’ I observed. 

‘ ‘Surely you could not have lost compassion 
for him in the end, you kind-hearted, long- 
suffering creature ? ’ ’ 

“’Twas he left me, and small blame to 
him,’’ she said. “It turned out that he 
had a married niece in Cleveland very well 
to do, and she had the givin’ of a place in 
the Old Men’s Home there.’’ 

“At the Little Sisters?’’ 

“No, but the Protestant Home. He was 
an Irish Protestant, ma’am, and never 
turned; though I got him to go to two 
missions, and brought him round to the 
Fathers four or five times. But sure we 
mustn’t judge our neighbors. His early 
trainin’ was too strong, ma’am; and, you 


MARRIED ELIZA. 


319 


know, there’s them that’s outside the pale 
that’s acknowledged to be in the bosom 
of the Church — the true Church.” 

“So he went to Cleveland? ” 

“He did, ma’am. Not to shame him 
there, I worked my fingers to the bone to 
get him a new suit and a good change of 
socks and underclothin’.” 

“Who paid his fare?” 

“I did that, ma’am, too, cleanin’ out the 
railroad ofiice.” 

“And he was willing to go?” 

“Oh, yes! Why wouldn’t he? Myself 
was gettin’ a little old, and the buildin’ was 
no place for the likes of him. I often felt 
sorry for him, with the smell of the gutter 
and the noise of the childher — the buildin’ 
is full of them, — and his stomach was weak. 
’Tis said that dyspepsia affects the nerves, 
along with other things. ’ ’ 

“Do you often hear from him?” 

“Never, ma’am. Sure I can’t read 
writin’, and he was that proud I knew he’d 
never be trustin’ the readin’ of his letters 
to a stranger, nor have me writin’ at second- 
hand. No, I never hear from him.” 

“After he went, I suppose you lived 
alone until you came here?’* 


820 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


“I did for a few years, ma’am; but there 
was two sick old women in the buildin’ 
livin’ together in a bit of a room. They had 
ten dollars a month betw^een them. Their 
room was next to mine, and I did all I 
could for them between fits of the rheuma- 
tism tliat kept me from workin’ steady. 
They had both been with the Little Sisters, 
but they were queer and wouldn’t stay. 
They’d quarrel with others, but yet they 
liked each other. ’ ’ 

“And how were they with you? ’’ 

“Well, they were old, ma’am; and I 
didn’t mind them, the creatures, nor what 
they did.’’ 

“Oh, no! nor such little pleasantries as 
putting her things out on the landing while 
she was away at work,’’ said Sister Emilia, 
who had been an attentive listener for five 
minutes or more. “When we found her 
there for the third time, her poor hands 
swollen with rheumatism, while she begged 
them through the keyhole to let her in 
that she might tidy up the place and make 
their tea, Sister Jeanne Marie and I took 
advantage of our opportunity and carried 
her off that same evening.” 

“Oh, but you’re the rogue, Sister dear, 


MARRIED ELIZA. 


321 


listenin’ to my story and I not knowin’ 
it! But that was the way of it, ma’am,” she 
added, with a bright smile that seemed to 
transfigure her wrinkled old face, illumined 
by the steady light of generous self-sacrifice 
and unconscious heroism. 



XXIII. 

secret of a sorrowing HEART. 

Mrs. Casey and I were very good friends, 
and I enjoyed very much an occasional 
chat with her. Her conversation was a 
quaint blending of beautiful simplicity and 
a gentle shrewdness, which, within her 
limitations, betokened her a keen observer 
of men and things; while a wise charity 
characterized all she said. 

One pleasant summer morning, invited 
by her kindly nod and smile, I took a seat 
beside her on the south piazza, where she 
sat knitting the soft grey stockings that 
furnished her constant employment. 

“I wonder if your thoughts are as busy 
as your hands?” I inquired, as she made 
room for me on the bench beside her. 

“Mostly they are,” she replied. “I 
think a great deal, ma’am; but I never let 
my thoughts get away with me entirely. 
Times when they’re not so pleasant — for 
there’s many a thing to sadden an old 

323 


THE SECRET OF A SORROWING HEART. 323 


woman like me — I call a halt on them.” 

‘‘And what do you do then? ” 

“Oh, I take a little stroll down into the 
garden, or give a hand in the kitchen if 
they’re busy, or maybe steal into the chapel 
for a visit. ’Tis a comforting thing to have 
Our lyord so near.” 

She smiled up at me brightly, but I 
heard the echo of a half-breathed sigh. 

“How long have you been with the 
I^ittle Sisters? ” I inquired. 

“Close on eleven years,” was the reply. 
“I’m nearing seventy- three.” 

“You have no relatives? ” 

“I have one son, ma’am, if he isn’t dead 
by now? ” 

‘ ‘And he never comes to see you ? ’ ’ 

“He doesn’t know whether I’m living 
or dead, ma’am.” 

Feeling that I had been trespassing on 
delicate ground, I refrained from question- 
ing her further. Apparently, my curiosity 
had no depressing effect upon her, for 
presently she said: 

“’Twas a sudden notion brought me 
here, — a freak maybe you’d call it; but I’d 
do it over again if I had it to do. I was busy 
and happy enough before I came, and I’m 

[v 


324 CHKONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

busy and happy enough where I am. The 
bit and sup of charity from a stranger 
isn’t half as hard to swallow as when it’s 
doled out to you by your own, or those 
that ought to be your own. There’s an 
old proverb I mind well. I think of it 
often. I’ll engage you have heard it many 
a time: 

‘A son is a son till he gets a wife, 

But a daughter’s a daughter all her life. * 

I’ve had sorrowful proof of that, ma’am. 
Some may talk as they will about the 
man being the head of the house and the 
master; it doesn’t hold good always, — only 
seldom. Some tyrants of men are leaders, 
and a woman’s heart is broken with that 
kind. Thank God there are not so many 
of them, after all! I don’t believe there are, 
only when the drink makes them so; and 
even then many a drinking man is decent 
when he’s in his sober senses. A woman 
doesn’t feel so hard against him — that way. 
As a rule, I think the woman is the real 
head of the house. A sensible man knows 
his wife’s advice is to be taken; and a weak, 
shiftless one is often kept under by a strong- 
natured woman. I’ve seen it in a long life, 
ma’am; it’s nearly always the way. I 


THE SECRET OF A SORROWING HEART. 325 


often wonder what will be the end of those 
Women’s Rights if they get their way. 
’Twould be a sad thing if they’d get the 
upperhand of the men. I hope to God it 
may not turn out that way. What do you 
think, ma’am? You’re not for them, of 
course ? ’ ’ 

Having heartily assured- her that I was 
not in S5^mpathy wdth the New Woman, 
I ventured to ask a question, with the inten- 
tion of diverting her thoughts to the 
original subject. 

“You had a daughter once, Mrs. Casey? ’’ 

“I did, ma’am,’’ she answered; “and a 
good child she was. Herself and the boy 
came to America together, and I followed 
them four years after, when they had a 
little home for me. Katie was a milliner, 
and John had learned the machinist trade 
in Ireland. We were respectable people 
in the old country, where it costs money to 
learn a trade or a business; and their father 
did well by them both. But times got 
hard, and he died. Sometimes, when I 
think over it all, I feel as if I’d like tO' 
speak to somebody. I hope I don’t tire 
you, ma’am, with my old talk.” 

“Far from it, Mrs. Casey,” I answered. 


326 CHRONICLES OF “tHE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“You know that I sympathize with you; 
and, then, a confidence often relieves an 
overburdened mind.” 

“Yes,” said the old woman, thoughtfully. 
“I may as well tell you the rest; though 
maybe you’ll think worse of me when 
you’ve heard it.” 

“Oh, no!” I replied. “Do not fear that, 
Mrs. Casey. We all make mistakes now 
and then.” 

“That is so,” she rejoined. “Well, as 
I was saying, my husband died, and that 
is how we all came to America. ’Tis the 
same story many a one has to tell. The 
children made a comfortable home for me 

in R. . Katie earned fifteen dollars a 

week, and John eighteen or twenty. He 
was a very promising lad, always reading 
machinery books, and once he found what 
was wrong with a machine when the 
experts gave it up. After that the master 
sent him about the country mending and 
repairing; and then by degrees he began to 
leave off practising his religion. Then he 
invented some kind of a screw, and 
was a long time trying to get some 
one to invest money in it. He found 
a man at last, and a bigoted Protes- 


THE SECRET OF A SORROWING HEART. 327 


tant he was, with a family of dashing 
girls. This was in Memphis, Tennessee. 
The end of it all was that he married and 
prospered greatly. But he didn’t write to 
us often after that; though when he did he 
was never without sending a gift of money. 

“Katie and myself got on nicely; but one 
cold winter she had an attack of pneumonia, 
and it left her lungs delicate. She began 
to spit blood, and that frightened me. I 
wrote to John, but received no reply for a 
month or more. Then he wrote asking 
us to come and make a visit with him; for 
he said the South would be good for Katie. 
She wasn’t for going; but I thought of her 
and her alone, and persuaded her; telling 
her ’t would do no harm to try it. So at 
last she consented. I wrote to John then 
that we’d go, and he sent us the money 
to pay our travelling expenses. We hadn’t 
seen him for ten years, and when he met 
us at the wharf he was greatly changed. 
His face was long and peaked, and his 
hair was grey; and, though he was finely 
dressed, he didn’t look near so happy as in 
the days when he was working at his trade. 

“When we went home to his fine house 
the wife was very stiff. She was all in 


328 CHRONICLES OF THE ‘^LITTLE SISTERS.’^ 

silks and ribbons — for ’twas of a summer’s 
evening, — but to my mind she had a com- 
mon look. She couldn’t compare with my 
sweet, pale, soft- voiced Katie. She took us 
up to our room, and told us to go to bed, 
as she would tell a couple of children. But 
the night was fine, and I thought I’d say 
my Rosary in the garden; so, after Katie 
was asleep, I stole down. The moon and 
stars were shining bright, and the scent of 
the flowers delicious. I sat down on a 
bench beneath a kind of balcony, to say my 
prayers. I hadn’t been there long till I 
heard footsteps on the porch above me. 
They didn’t see me, and I couldn’t get up 
without their finding me out; so I was 
obliged to hear every word. It was John 
and the wife. 

“‘Mr. Casee,’ said she, giving the 
name the queerest sound, ‘why didn’t . you 
tell me how Irish your mother was ? The 
girl is well enough, but the old woman is 
just terrible. I can’t let any of our friends 
know she’s belonging to us.’ 

“I trembled for fear of the answer he’d 
make, but he only said: 

“‘Now, Sarah, try to be reasonable. 
My mother is a fine old woman, and I am 


The secret of a sorrowing heart. 329 

not ashamed of her. She will not trouble 
you. I didn’t mean her to see you at all; 
but now that she’s here, you will have to 
make the best of it. ’ 

“‘And introduce her to my friends?’ 
said she, with a sneering laugh. 

“John was silent for a few minutes, and 
then he answered: 

“‘No, Sarah, you needn’t trouble about 
that. She won’t put herself forward. ’ 

‘“Hm! she won’t! I fear she will. I 
just fancy I can see her coming into the 
parlor in that big white cap. ’ 

“ ‘Say no more about my mother, Sarah,’ 
he retorted; and then they went in, and 
all was quiet again. 

“I stole up to the room. Katie lay fast 
asleep, breathing softly as a little child. If 
it hadn’t been for her I’d have gone out 
into the night and darkness that minute; 
for my heart was hurt and my pride was 
strong. But I knew how it would be if I. 
told her the sorrowful tale; and ’twas only 
for her that I lived at all. 

“I went to my bed comforted. I was up 
at the break of day, but Katie still slept on. 
When I saw how pale and . thin she looked, 
and felt the fresh breath of the morning 


330 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.' 


stealing in through the window, and the 
scent of the flowers — for the garden below 
was full of them, — I said to myself: ‘O 
my darling. I’ll bear a deal for your sake!’ 
So I went downstairs, hoping to meet 
John; for he was always an early riser. 
And I did meet him, sure enough, coming 
out of one of the rooms. 

“‘Good-morning, mother dear!’ said he, 
with an affectionate smile and taking my 
hand tenderly. ‘I’d like to have a few 
words with you before the others are up.’ 

“ ‘Very well, my son,’ said I, stepping 
out onto the porch. 

“He followed me and asked for Katie. 

“ ‘She’s sleeping nicely, poor girl!’ I 
replied, — ‘better than she has slept for a 
long time. ’ 

“‘I’m glad of it. Come, mother, we’ll 
walk about a little; the morning’s fine.’ 

“Well, I knew that he wanted to get out 
of hearing of any one in the house; but 
I went along with him, and after a while 
he said: 

“‘Mother, my wife is a very bigoted 
Protestant, and all her friends are the same. 
When I wrote asking you and Katie to 
come, I thought she’d be away North for 


The secret of a sorrowing heart. 331 


the summer with a party of friends. But 
the plan was broken off before I had time 
to let you know.’ 

“‘Well, John dear?’ said I, waiting. 

“‘I’ve been thinking it might be more 
pleasant if you and sister Katie would 
occupy a small cottage that’s vacant just 
around the corner. I could go to see you 
there — and it would be better every way.’ 

“ ‘Yes, John dear,’ said I, ‘it would. 
We’ll be glad to go. It will be pleasanter 
in every way. But, my son, don’t let your 
poor sick sister know we’re not welcome 
here. ’ 

“ ‘What do you mean, mother? ’ said he. 

“ ‘I was always a woman of few words,’ 
I answered. ‘That you know without 
my telling you. When can we go?’ 

“ ‘Maybe it would be better to go soon — 
before you’ve unpacked your trunk. The 
place is all in order. In fact, I own it 
myself, mother. The tenant went out only 
last week. And you will at least have 
peace. ’ 

‘“The sooner the better, John,’ said I, 
giving his hand a little squeeze; for I pitied 
him from my heart. 

“Well, I made it aU right with ELatie, 


332 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS,” 

telling her the house would be full of 
company, and making out ’twas my own 
proposition to have a nice little place to 
ourselves. I made an excuse to ask for 
Katie’s breakfast in the room, and we ate 
together. By nine we were in the cottage, 
and a pretty place it was. Not a sight of 
the Madam did we get before we left. She 
was in the parlor talking to some one as 
we passed out. But I heard her say. ‘An 
old Irish woman and her daughter’; and 
by that remark I knew she meant to deny 
us altogether. 

“Three months we spent in that little 
house, till Katie faded away like a flower 
out of my arms and went to heaven. 
Never once did that woman put her foot 
across the threshold, but every night John 
would ^teal in for a few minutes. He 
provided well for us, and was very kind 
and affectionate when he came. But I 
couldn’t deceive Katie long. Very soon 
she saw through it all, and was longing 
to get back home, where we’d be indepen- 
dent again as we were before. Nothing 
grieved us like seeing John pass the door 
of a Sunday going to the Baptist church 
along with his wife. 


THE SECRET OP A SORROWING HEART. 333 


“Well, to shorten my story, we fell in 
with a kind priest, and he came regularly 
to see my girl till she died. She went 
without a struggle or a pang. One morn- 
ing I was busy in the kitchen, and she 
sitting at the open window in a big willow 
chair wit*h a cushion at the back. It 
seemed a long time since I heard a sound 
from her, and I went in. There she was 
dead, a sweet smile on her lips and her 
Rosary between her fingers. Did I weep 
and wail, ma’am? Oh, no! My heart was 
rejoiced to see her out of pain and trouble; 
to know that neither of us would have to 
eat any longer the bitter bread that was 
choking me every day. I closed the doors 
and locked them, and laid her out with my 
own hands. I put on her my own habit 
that I had laid away, and then I went to 
the undertaker. I knew the train left at 
two o’clock that day, and I was bound to 
get away on it. Her birthday occurred 
three days before. That evening John 
came in and put a hundred-dollar bill in 
her hand; and it wasn’t the first time he 
did the like. I had some little savings 
besides, so it was easy enough for me to 
have everything done in time. I don’t 


334 CHKONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS. 


know what you’ll think of me, ma’am, or 
whether I did right or wrong; I can’t be 
sure about it myself till this day. But all 
I wanted was to get away. I didn’t 
want to see John again, and I had my wish. 

“When the train left that day I was on 
board, with my precious girl in her coflSn 
in the freight-car behind me. Here I 
brought her, and here I buried her in the 
little cemetery. The neighbors were kind. 
I don’t know what they thought, but they 
asked me no questions; for I was always to 
myself, and never intimate with any one. 
For a while I pottered along alone; but 
my health failed greatly, and I had no 
trouble in getting into the Tittle Sisters. 
I knew the good Mother well. ’ ’ 

“And your son ? ’’ I asked. “What did 
he have to say about it ? ’ ’ 

“I never had a line from him, for he 
didn’t know of my whereabouts. Oh, he 
was well enough himself, ma’am; but ’tis 
likely he was vexed with me for what I 
did, and the wife had the upperhand. ’ ’ 
“And you never wrote to him? ’’ 

“I did not, and — God forgive me! — I 
never wished to. ’ ’ 

<‘But you forgive him? ” 


THE SECRET OF A SORROWING HEART. 335 


*‘If praying for him day and night be 
forgiving, I do that ma’am. No son could 
have been better to his mother under the 
circumstances; but he was false to his God 
and his holy religion.” 

“And you would like to see him? In 
your heart of hearts you long for him some- 
times?” 

She raised her tearful eyes to Heaven and 
clasped her hands with a passionate fervor 
as she replied: 

“Oh, never! never! I know you won’t 
understand, — you can’t understand. The 
Lord will pardon me, — I know He will; 
for He knows — He knows what a cross it 
is to a broken-hearted mother.’* 

She was right: I could hardly under- 
stand; but the God on whom she relied so 
confidently — surely He understood. 



XXIV. 

MADAME FERRET’S SECRET. 

Small, dark, rather sharp- featured, with 
luminous black eyes which time and sorrow 
had but faintly dimmed, Madame Perret, 
distinguished as “the proud Frenchy” by 
some of her less exclusive companions at the 
Home of the Little Sisters, was polite to all, 
but intimate with none. For many years 
she had been a French teacher in C. , earn- 
ing a respectable if scanty sustenance; but, 
as new-fashioned methods which she would 
not adopt began to supersede the old, her 
pupils gradually became fewer in number, 
until step by step she descended to the 
lowest depths of poverty. Unable to work, 
with no provision for her old age, she 
presented herself at the Little Sisters’ one 
day, asking for admission. 

“I will be frank with you,” she said to 
the good Mother. “I have had the choice 
between coming here and going to the 
Home for aged gentlewomen, where some 

336 


MADAME ferret’s SECRET. 


337 


kind ladies, my former pupils, could and 
would have found me a place.” 

“You are not a Catholic, then?” said 
the good Mother. “In that case it is 
strange that you do not prefer the other 
Home, where you could at least have found 
more congenial associates. For I presume 
you know, Madame, that our people belong, 
for the most part, to the humbler ranks of 
life.” 

The old woman smiled sadly as she made 
answer: 

“I know all about it. It is enough 
to say that I am from Lyons. I knew 
your Sisters very well when I was a little 
girl. Often have I gone to the convent 
with alms from my mother.” 

“And yet you are not a Catholic, — are 
you, Madame?” 

“Why do you think that I am not a 
Catholic, Mother?” 

“I infer from what you say of your 
connections here that you are not one.” 

The old woman hesitated. At length 
she replied: 

“No, I can not call myself a Catholic, 
although I believe in your religion. I may 
as well tell you at once. Mother, that I was 


338 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

baptized in that faith; yet there are reasons 
why I can not participate in its Sacra- 
ments.” 

“God is so good!” said the cheerful little 
French nun. “He is very, very good, 
Madame. Perhaps, in His wise providence. 
He is sending you to us that you may be 
a real Catholic at the end. May it not 
be so? ” 

The old woman slowly shook her head. 

“No,” she sighed. “Although I should 
wish it, I am afraid that can never be. 
I have delayed too long. However, here 
I prefer to live and die, if you will 
receive me.” 

“Very well,” replied the good Mother. 
“But you know at the other Home you 
would have a room to yourself, while here 
there is a dormitory in common. I suppose 
you understand — ” 

“Yes, yes,” rejoined the other, some- 
what petulantly; “I know all that. Kind 
as you are, you can scarcely realize how 
great is the sacrifice of my privacy. I love 
to be alone; for many years I have lived, 
hoped, sorrowed, despaired alone. To be 
alone — oh, what a luxury it is! And yet 
amid a thousand alien souls one can always 


MADAME PEERET’s SECRET. 


339 


be in solitude if one wishes, I think. Is 
it not so? ” 

“You are right,” said the Mother. “I 
thought only of your comfort, Madame. 
You may come to us whenever you will. ” 

“Thank you, good Mother. I shall 
try not to give the least trouble to the 
Sisters. I can sew a little still, and I will 
do all I can to help ” 

She came next day, and proved a model 
inmate. No complaint of any kind was 
ever heard of her or from her lips. While 
unfailing in her attendance at the chapel, 
she was never seen to kneel or to make the 
Sign of the Cross. But her lips often 
moved as if in prayer, and at the Elevation 
and Communion it was noticed that she 
always bowed her head reverently over her 
clasped hands. 

Madame Ferret had been with the Little 
Sisters about three years, when some 
changes were made in the community. 
The Mother Superior (a Frenchwoman) 
was removed, and another (an American) 
sent in her place. But the latter also spoke 
excellent French, having made her novitiate 
in Europe, at the mother-house, as is the 
custom in the Order. Madame Ferret was 


340 CHRONICLES OP “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

at once drawn to her, and the attraction 
was mutual. The Mother pitied the deli- 
cate, refined old lady, driven by poverty 
to spend her last years in an abode of 
charity. 

One lovely holiday afternoon, as her 
companions walked about the garden or 
sat on benches under the trees, Madame 
Ferret, seated in an old rocking-chair near 
the kitchen door, slightly leaning back, 
was drumming quickly with her fingers 
on her knees, as one might on an imaginary 
organ or piano. 

The good Mother was passing. She 
paused and said: 

“Madame Ferret, now I know of whom 
you remind me. Ever since I came, when 
I looked at you I saw a resemblance to 
some one whom I once knew; it seemed 
to me very long ago. Now I know that 
it was my kind old music- teacher. Sister 
Marguerite, at the convent of N. She was 
the busiest person I ever knew; and if once 
in a great while her hands chanced to be 
idle, she would drum with her fingers so — 
just as you are doing. 

The old woman looked at her calmly 
for a few moments. 


MADAME PEERET’s SECRET. 


341 


“I think it is a pity,” she said, “that 
you have no music in your chapel. It 
would be so enlivening to the old people, 
and an incentive to devotion as well. ’ ’ 

The good Mother smiled and shrugged 
her shoulders. 

“Whatever I may think,” she replied, 
“I have nothing to say. It is our rule. 
You are a musician?” 

Madame Ferret shook her head. 

“Because I make a little motion with my 
fingers like this you think I am a musician, 
perhaps? No, no. Mother! I have not 
touched a piano for thirty years. And you 
— if I am not too bold ? ’ ’ 

“Once I played pretty well,” replied the 
good Mother. 

“Again may I ask where you received 
your education? ” 

“With the Sisters of at N.” 

“They are a fine community,” said the 
old woman, with emphasis. “Giving their 
whole souls to their work, they know 
neither fear nor favor; always courteous 
and gentle, yet having all the reserve and 
dignity necessary to true religious; and 
remarkable above all things, I should say, 
for the .spirit of detachment, which pre- 


342 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’^ 


serves them from worldliness. Into that 
congregation, at least, the spirit of the 
world has not yet crept — or had not when 
I knew them, many years ago.” 

“They are .still the same,” answered the 
good Mother. “Next to my own commu- 
nity, I love them best. ’ ’ 

“And your old music- teacher, of whom 
I remind you, — does she still live?” 
inquired Madame Ferret, carelessly. 

“She — why, how one forgets! I do not 
know. And it was such a wonder at the 
time. There was something strange about 
it. One day she was there, the next 
morning gone, without a good-bye or a 
word. The Sisters said nothing; but the 
rumor spread somehow that she had sud- 
denly become insane and had been taken 
to an asylum. But we were not allowed 
to speak of it at all; though we missed her, 
for she was a sweet, gentle creature.” 

“And you, good Mother,” said Madame 
Ferret, apparently indifferent to the fate 
of the poor nun, — “how did you, with 
your talents, happen to join the Tittle 
Sisters instead of a teaching order ? ’ ’ 

“My talents!” laughed the Mother. 
“They are few, Madame, I assure you. 


MADAME ferret’s SECRET. 


343 


But if it had not been for my eyes I should 
not, perhaps, have thought of the I^ittle 
Sisters. For a time I was almost blind, 
and my sight is very imperfect still. God 
so ordained it.” 

The old woman looked at her intently. 
Then she lifted the Sister’s hand and 
raised it to her lips. 

‘‘Blessed are they who follow, without 
turning back, the way which God has 
ordained for them,” she said. 

“Amen!” replied the other fervently, 
patting the withered old hand. ‘ ‘You are 
such a good creature,” she said, wistfully. 
“If you only would be a Catholic!” 

The old woman smiled, still looking into 
her face. 

“Thank you, good Mother, for the 
undeserved praise. I am Catholic enough, 
at least, to ask for your prayers.” 

“Trust me, you shall have them,” 
replied the Sister, about to turn away. 

“Wait a moment. Mother!” pleaded the 
old woman. “With those dark glasses I 
can not see your eyes. But they should be 
large and prominent and a bright blue.” 

The good Mother laughed merrily. 

“You have guessed right, Madame/' 


344 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS-' 


As she turned the corner of the house, 
well out of sight and hearings Madame 
Perret leaned back in the rocking-chair. 

“Yes, little Fanny Donnelly, I am sure,” 
she whispered to herself, and there were 
tears upon her cheek. 

A sudden cry in the night, a hurrying 
of feet, a knock at the door of the good 
Mother. 

“Good Mother, come quickly! Madame 
Perret is dying!” 

A few moments later she was standing 
beside the bed of the old woman, who 
seemed to be breathing her last, so still 
so white she lay on the blood-stained 
pillows. She had had a hemorrhage — the 
third since the beginning of the winter, 
when a slight cold had developed into a 
severe bronchial cough. But soon a faint 
color came to her cheeks again, and she 
opened her eyes. They sought the good 
Mother’s face. 

“Pray! pray!” she implored. 

“I am praying, — we are all praying 
every moment,” was the reply. “They 
have gone for the doctor. You will be 
better soon, Madame.” 


MADAME ferret’s SECRET. 


345 


“Not for that,” murmured the old 
woman, — “pray not for that, but for my 
soul.” Hdr eyes closed, and she lapsed 
into silence. 

Swiftly and noiselessly the Sisters sent 
the frightened old women, who surrounded 
their dying companion, back to their beds. 
Another bed was being prepared in the 
infirmary for the sufferer, to which she was 
soon borne by tender hands. The doctor 
came, enjoining perfect quiet, and giving 
some slight remedy in case she should have 
another attack. But he gave no hope of 
recovery. She was too weak and old, he 
said. The good Mother sat beside her 
until the first gray light of morning stole 
through the window; then, motioning the 
waiting Sister to take her place, she went 
to the chapel, where she remained until 
the Sisters assembled for Mass. When she 
returned to the infirmary, Madame Ferret 
was sleeping quietly. She had hoped to 
have been able to call the priest to the 
bedside, but hesitated, not knowing 
Madame Ferret’s wishes. It was ten 
o’clock when she opened her eyes at 
last. Fathetic, pleading, anxious beyond 
description, they looked into those of 


346 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 


the good Mother, just entering the room. 

“Stay with me; it will not be for long,” 
she murmured, grasping the kindly hand 
and pressing it close to her bosom. 

“I shall not leave you,” replied the good 
Mother. “And, O dear Madame, will you 
not permit me to send for a priest? ” 

“Not yet,” said the other. “Wait until 
you have heard me. What does the doctor 
say ? Will it be soon ? ’ ’ 

“I can not tell,” rejoined the Sister. 
“You must be kept perfectly quiet he says. 
It will not be well for you to speak.” 

“I must speak. What do a few hours 
matter ? I will speak slowly. I must tell 
you before I die. My story may be of 
benefit to others; they may learn what 
deceit and pride can do to a soul — to a life. 
Tell it when I am gone, good Mother. It 
may be some reparation.” 

These few words had exhausted her. 
The good Mother gave her a little wine 
and water, which revived her. And then, 
in short, broken whispers, with many 
pauses, the hand of the Sister fast held in 
both of hers, she told her sorrowful story. 

“Good Mother,” she said, “I was born 
in Tyons sixty-five years ago. I am not 


MADAME ferret’s SECRET. 


347 


SO old as I look, but I have had many 
sorrows, such as wreck the soul and early 
wear out the body. I was a gay, proud 
girl, fond of pleasure and fine apparel and 
costly living. My parents were well-to-do; 
they reared me piously, but I was never 
really pious. My heart was full of thoughts 
of the world. Pride was my besetting sin. 
I could brook neither interference nor 
advice. My soul was a total stranger to 
contradiction or humiliation of any kind. 
I became engaged to a young man of good 
family. Both our parents were anxious 
for the match. He was gay like myself, 
handsome and rich. I did not care particu- 
larly for him, and I was aware that his 
affections had been placed elsewhere; but 
that gave me little concern. On the very 
day when our marriage was to have taken 
place he eloped with the girl he loved, 
taking twenty thousand francs belonging 
to his father. They came to America. 
You are aware, no doubt, that in France 
such a proceeding meant for me social 
banishment forever. My pride was crushed 
to earth. That very night I made a vow 
to become a nun. I succeeded in deceiving 
everybody, even my confessor, with the 


348 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

belief that I had a vocation; and I entered 

the novitiate of the Sisters of at the 

end of a year. 

“During the eight years of my conven- 
tual life they had but one fault to find with 
me — viz., that I was too passive in my 
manner; although that was laid to what 
was supposed to be my spirit of renunciation 
and mortification. You may think it 
strange, almost impossible, that I could 
have misted experienced mistresses into 
such a belief, when in reality my soul 
was a seething volcano of pride and selfish- 
ness; but I assure you such was the case. 
I was sent to America, where I remained 
about five years in the convent at N. Your 
hand trembles, good Mother — you know 
who I am? Well, shall I go on?” 

The Mother bowed her head. 

“The trials of my novitiate had been 
few. It may be that the spirit of resistance 
and rebellion was dormant during those 
years. But a very little thing revealed of 
what stuff I was made. Or, maybe, the 
time had come when Our Tord could not 
endure the hypocrite in the abode of His 
chosen daughters any longer; for they 
were a perfect community. 


MADAME ferret’s SECRET. 


349 


“One evening I stood in the music-room, 
holding a little pearl crucifix between my 
fingers. It was of beautiful workmanship, 
and had that day been given me by a 
devoted pupil. The superior passed. I 
showed it to her. After admiring it, she 
suggested that I send it as an offering to 
a bazaar about to be held in one of our 
convents in France to raise funds for the 
erection of a chapel to the Sacred Heart 
of Jesus. Something rose up in me for 
the first time since I became a religious — 
oh, how base and unworthy! — and I said, 
somewhat brusquely: ‘But I would rather 
keep it. Mother, as it was given me for 
myself.’ She looked greatly surprised, as 
she answered that such a gift was far too 
valuable for one who had vowed herself 
to holy poverty; adding that it would be 
better in that case to return it to the donor. 
I replied: ‘Why, that would be an insult. 
Mother. And how can such a trifle hurt 
either me or the virtue of holy poverty ? ’ 
I spoke with a sneer; my old self asserted 
its dominion on the instant. The superior 
looked at me in surprise, — I might better 
say she looked through me. I firmly 
believe at that moment she read the depths 


350 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.** 

of my soul. She was a woman after God’s 
own heart, and on such as she does He often 
bestow the gift of divination. ‘My child,* 
she said, sternly and yet compassionately, 
‘go to the chapel, and then come to me.* 
I made no reply, and she left the room, 
I heard her swift, light step resound 
through the empty corridor, and the door 
of her room open and close. 

“I looked about me. At one end of the 
long hall a Sister had already begun to 
light the lamps. It was growing dark, — 
in autumn the day fades quickly once the 
sun has gone down. A sudden temptation 
seized me, — a horrible disgust of my life 
as well as the falsehood I was living. Oh, 
believe me, good Mother! it was not all 
evil — that thought, that desire so quickly 
put into execution. Something of shame, 
of detestation of my conduct, was mingled 
with it: I felt myself to be unworthy to 
remain longer in that abode of virtue. I 
might have gone from it openly in the 
day-time, perhaps you may tell me, with 
the consent of my superior, with my vows 
remitted. Oh, yes! I know. But I did 
not: I went like a thief in the night, as 
I had entered, A long cloak belonging to 


MADAME PERKET’S SECRET. 


351 


one of the boarders hung upon the wall: 
the girl was about my own height and 
figure. Swift as the thought that suggested 
itself to my mind, I stole up to the ward- 
robe, took one of her dresses from the 
drawer and returned to the music-room. 
On the table lay a scarf that one of the 
children had been knitting. I seized it, 
removed the needles and fastened the ends 
of the thread. In the little drawer of my 
desk was some money paid me during the 
day by some pupils. I took it out and 
counted it: it amounted to twenty dollars. 

“Once more I looked around, and saw 
no one. The Sisters were all in the chapel 
at this hour. It was now quite dark. 
Quickly removing my veil and habit, I 
put on the dress. Snatching the cloak 
from the nail, I wrapped it about me; and, 
t3dng the scarf over my head, flew along 
the corridor and down the stairs, so noise- 
lessly that I could have thought myself a 
ghost rushing to its doom. Once in the 
yard, I bethought me of the gate, always 
locked before dark. My soul quite sickened 
as I approached it. Oh, joy! by what 
strange chance had the portress forgotten 
it that evening? Do not shrink, deares^ 


352 CHRONICLES OF ‘"THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

Mother, when I tell you that I thanked 
the evil spirit at that moment for my oppor- 
tunity. Throwing it wide open, I cast one 
look behind me. In the distance I could 
see the portress, with the lantern swinging 
in her hand, hastening to fulfil the duty she 
had overlooked. The memory of that 
moment — that last glimpse of paradise — has 
never left me. 

“Though neither dreading pursuit nor 
fearing recognition, once on the street I ran 
quickly in the direction of the long bridge 
I had daily seen through the windows of 
the music-rooms. I had thought it spanned 
a river, but it proved to be only a canal. 
A boat was anchored at the foot of some 
slimy steps. A woman stood in the door- 
way. Approaching her, I asked the des- 
tination of the boat. She told me the 
name of a town some sixty miles distant. 
I asked her if they would take a passenger. 
She replied of course, if I had money to 
pay. She called her husband, and the 
bargain was quickly made — but why these 
unnecessary details? I desired to leave the 
city of N. far behind me, and I accom- 
plished my desire. 

‘ ‘At first I was prosperous — yes, for 


MADAME ferret’s SECRET. 


353 


many years; that is, if to have enough 
meat and drink and clothes and kindly 
acquaintances be prosperity. But still the 
worm was gnawing my soul with its double- 
edged tooth, and has never left me at peace 
for a moment from that hour. All who 
had known and the few who had loved me 
thought me dead or demented or lost. Into 
m}^ father’s house I might never again set 
my foot; from that second home, which 
might have been for me the outer portal 
of heaven, I was forever banished. From 
the hour I set the seal upon my own 
fate until I came here, good Mother, I 
never entered a Catholic church, or spoke 
to a priest, or exchanged a word with any 
woman in the garb of a religious. But 

from my window in the R ’s Building, 

where I lived for several years, I saw the 
foundations of this Home laid, the building 
rise, and the spire of the chapel with its 
little cross ascend; and when at last the 
Fittle Sisters came to occupy it, I loved 
to watch them coming and going from day 
to day, receiving their charges, talking 
with them on the porches and in the 
garden, and going about begging for them 
through the streets of the city. 


354 CHEONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“And so at last, when old age crept on 
apace, and poverty knocked loudly at my 
door, I began to have a deadly fear of 
dying as I had lived; and, though I did not 
dare then, and have not dared since I came 
•into this blessed shelter, to pray for the 
forgiveness and the opportunity so unde- 
served, I have dared to hope that the 
prayers of others, the nearness of virtue 
and holiness, would do something for me 
in my last extremity. O dear, dear, good 
Mother, may it be? O you that were little 
Fanny Donnelly in that time so long ago, 
tell me is it too late, — will the priest come 
to me, that I may be forgiven, and die 
in the peace of God, with the hope of 
a favorable judgment?” 

“Poor thing! poor thing!” answered 
the weeping nun. “He will come, — I will 
send for him at once. And now let us 
thank God,” she added, detaching the 
crucifix from her rosary and placing it in 
^ the hands of the dying woman, who kissed 
it again and again, with a fervor that must 
have been a pleasing sight to the Guardian 
Angel who had walked beside her unseen, 
but perhaps not all unheeded, through so 
many bitter, wasted years. 


XXV. 

TWO HEJROITOS. 

Thousands of miles away from the abode 
of peace and charity, portions of the lives 
of whose inmates I have from time to time 
endeavored feebly to portray for the edifica- 
tion and sympathy of the readers of Our 
Lady’s magazine, I can at any moment 
picture before my mind’s eye the pathetic 
old faces, the bent forms and trembling 
limbs of those blessed among God’s poor 
who have had the good fortune to spend 
their last days under the ministrations of 
the Little Sisters. I hear once more their 
kindly salutations, their expressions of 
patient resignation, of heartfelt gratitude to 
the self-sacrificing women who have dedi- 
cated their lives to the service of age and 
poverty. Witty sallies, too, recur to me, and 
merry words of cheer; for, in the main, these 
wards of charity have light hearts and a 
ready tongue. 

Again I am kneeling behind the long 

355 


356 CHEONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

rows of benches where — the men on one 
side, the women on the other — they are 
fervently reciting the Rosary. German, 
Irish and English are mingled in the pious 
responses; with here and there an occa- 
sional Sainte Marie^ Mere de Dieu^ or 
Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, bringing 
home forcibly to the mind that the charity 
of the Church of God knows no distinction 
of nationality or even faith; for close at 
my side a Lutheran Protestant is seated, 
calmly surveying the assembled multitude, 
and probably praying in his own fashion. 
In front of me a mulatto woman is kneel- 
ing, absorbed in her devotions; while 
almost directly opposite are two negro men, 
feeble and decrepit; one— a Protestant — 
sitting with head slightly bent, while his 
lips move slowly; the other slipping a pair 
of well-worn beads through his fingers, 
while, in the most musical of rich African 
voices, he devoutly answers the “Our 
Father” and “Hail Mary.” 

It is not unusual among the very poor, 
especially the Irish poor, to find two old 
W'omen living together, sharing each other’s 
burdens, and dividing the small income or 
alms that keep soul and body together. 


TWO HEROINES. 


357 


It is only when all other resources are 
exhausted — when old age, poverty, and 
disease leave them utterly helpless, — that 
they finally consent to enter that refuge, 
in default of which many of them would 
be obliged either to go to the poor-house 
or die of starvation. Therefore it often 
happens that, after many difiiculties, the 
Little Sisters succeed in persuading two 
friends and companions like those to whom 
my story relates to accept the kind hospital- 
ity of the Home for the rest of their days; 
and in such circumstances they are very 
careful to represent to the poor old pension- 
ers that they shall be allowed to associate 
with each other as before; and that, though 
in the midst of new scenes and companions, 
they will not be separated. 

Such were the circumstances under 
which Mary Monahan and Katie Ryan had 
been received at the Home for the Aged 

in C . They had lived together for 

many years in a large tenement house in 
the city, whither the Little Sisters came 
weekly to visit the sick and infirm; and 
from which, despite the poverty of the 
numerous dwellers in the immense building, 
they seldom went without a few dimes 


358 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

from the charity of the least poverty- 
stricken among them. 

Mary Monahan, the elder of the two, 
was a woman of about seventy when they 
came to the Home. Tall, angular, - with 
masculine features and a stern expression 
of countenance, the rigidity of her aspect 
disappeared whenever a rare and beautiful 
smile parted her lips, disclosing a set of 
white, perfect teeth that any young girl 
might well have been proud to own. She 
reminded one of nothing so much as a 
particular old maid who had spent her life 
in waging war against all kinds of house- 
hold uncleanliness, real or imaginary. 

The other woman, Katie Ryan, com- 
monly supposed to be Mary Monahan’s 
niece, was much younger — about fifty-five 
at most; but an asthmatic affection had 
long left her a confirmed invalid, unable 
for some years previous to their coming 
to the Home to help earn the scanty liveli- 
hood that served them both. She was an 
utter contrast to her companion. She must 
have been beautiful in youth, — a specimen 
of typical Irish loveliness. Short and 
buxom, with a complexion that still showed 
a clear pink and white through the wear 


TWO HEROINES. 


859 


and tear of years and adversity; while a 
pair of soft grey eyes looked timidly out 
from beneath long, dark lashes, giving 
a most attractive expression to her childish 
face. 

The tender devotion between these two 
exceeded that commonly found even 
between mother and daughter; each defer- 
ring to the other in every respect, and 
anxious only for the comfort and pleasure 
of her companion. 

One day an old woman who was sitting 
with them, curious to know the degree of 
relationship existing between them, in- 
quired: 

“Mrs. Monahan, are you aunt to Mrs. 
Ryan by blood or marriage?^’ 

The two women looked at each other, 
both apparently taken unawares by the very 
simple and natural question. 

“By marriage,” replied Mrs. Monahan, 
tersely, after a few moments’ hesitation; 
“though I don’t know what concern it is 
of any one,” she continued, in a tone which 
indicated that the question had disturbed 
her. 

“There’s no call to be so snappish about 
it, ’ ’ retorted the questioner, as she hobbled 


360 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

away to inform her companions of the 
“snub” she had received; at the same time, 
with many knowing shakes of the head, 
giving her opinion that they were either 
not related at all or that they were mother 
and daughter; one or both with a record 
that they could not afford to make public; 
with sundry other doubts and beliefs, in 
which her cronies agreed with her. 

After a while it came to be an accepted 
thing among the inmates that there was 
really a mystery which the two women 
shared. ‘There was, to be sure, a reticence 
about them quite unusual with women of 
their age and class; and, though kindly 
and affable in their manner toward all, 
neither of them invited intimacy. They 
seemed to be sufficient for each other. 

In the winter of 1885 the elder woman 
had a paralytic stroke, and from that time 
until she died was unable to leave her bed. 
Her friend watched over her with unre- 
mitting care and fondness; weeping and 
lamenting often, in her emotional Irish 
way, that she had not been stricken and the 
other spared; wishing that she might be 
allowed to suffer instead of “Mary,” who 
lay peacefully on her bed, helpless and 


TWO HEROINES. 


361 


patient, sorry only that she should be 
obliged to give trouble to the good Sisters 
and her faithful nurse; and declaring 
repeatedly, in her poor, broken voice, that 
she was “very, very comfortable ” But 
she failed from day to day, till at length 
the doctor announced that she could not 
live much longer. The priest was sum- 
moned, and she made her preparation for 
death. Then it was that Kitty utterly 
refused to be comforted, giving way to 
the wildest lamentations and becoming 
hysterical in her grief. 

The good Mother stood beside the bed 
of the dying woman, vainly endeavoring 
to assuage the sorrow of her devoted friend. 

“Oh, don’t talk to me, good Mother 
dear!’’ she exclaimed. “ ’Tis well I know 
you’re for my good, but I can’t help it, — I 
can’t help it! When she goes I’ll be losing 
more than father or mother, or sister or 
brother, or husband or child. Where would 
I be — what would I be to-day but for her? 
She that lost a good home on account of me, 
that saved me from poverty and disgrace 
and shame and misery; she that did for 
me with her two hands whilst she was able; 
she that I thought would bury me in the 


362 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

end. Oh, vo, vo, vo, that I mu.st see 
this day!” 

“Hush, Kitty!” said a weak voice from 
the bed. “What will the good Mother 
think at all, at all? Restrain yourself, 
alajma! I’m happy. Sure you w^ouldn’t 
keep me longer than God wills. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I oughtn’t, — I oughtn’t!” sobbed 
Kitty. “But I’m selfish and weak, Mary. 
There’s one thing I’ll do. I’ll tell the 
good Mother the whole story before you 
go. You’ll not leave this till she knows 
what a saint of God she had under this 
blessed roof. ’ ’ 

“No, no, Kitty!” pleaded Mary. “You 
won’t do that, asthore! And you’re only 
making her suspect every bad thing of you 
by going on that way.” 

“Come, Kitty, — come!” said the good 
Mother at this juncture; for the cheeks of 
the dying woman had grown pink, and her 
eyes were shining with excitement and 
apprehension. Leaving the patient in 
charge of anotfier Sister, she led the 
weeping woman away from the infirmary, 
bidding her go to the chapel to find 
consolation for her breaking heart. 

But poor Kitty’s feelings had been so 


TWO HEROINES. 


363 


wrought up that quiet and even prayer 
were impossible until she had relieved her 
mind of its burden. Kneeling on the floor, 
her face in the good Mother’s lap, she 
begged her to listen to the tale she had to 
tell. The gentle nun could not further 
oppose her; and when she returned to the 
infirmary, she bore with her the knowledge 
of the life-history of the two women, — a 
knowledge which gave her, for the one fast 
approaching eternity, a feeling of admira- 
tion mingled with the reverence that 
always attaches to an act or a life of 
devoted heroism. 

“And did you quiet her, good Mother 
dear?” asked Mary, as the Sister once 
more took a seat beside her. 

“Yes,” was the reply. “I left her lying 
on the bed, promising to call her at once 
in case you should take a change.” 

“I won’t,” said the sick woman, in a 
soft, low voice. “I’ll not die suddenly. 
I’ll just go out gradually, as the candle 
flame dies. And don’t give a thought to 
what she said in her distracted grief, good 
Mother. Sure you’ve only to look in 
Kitty’s face to know that she’s like a 
child — as simple and — ” 


364 CHRONICLES OP '‘THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“She has told me all, Mary,” said the 
good Mother; “and I think Our I^ord has 
a beautiful throne prepared for you in 
heaven. ’ ’ 

The dying woman started. “She did 
that, good Mother! She told you! Well, 
if she did, I must tell you again; for she 
gave it her own color — as she saw it. It’s 
my duty now to tell you my part of it. 
Maybe you won’t think so much of me 
then, good Mother, as you do now, — no, 
no! You couldn’t. ” 

“Spare yourself, Mary,” said the Sister. 
“You are so weak, and 3^011 are too humble. 
What does it matter now?” 

“O good Mother dear, let me tell you!” 
she pleaded. “Sure she was but a slip of 
a girl, and always a child, some way. 
Such a weak, coaxing, innocent creature, 
good Mother. I’ll go slow. I’ll take a 
sup of the wine before I begin, to strengthen 
me; but I can’t die leaving you to think 
Kitty what shef's not. Oh, what did she 
tell you at all ? ” 

‘ ‘She told me that she went away with 
your husband, and described your heroic 
charity toward them afterward.” 

“She saw only the outside and heard 


TWO HEROINES. 


365 


the words of my mouth. She never knew, 
or none but God’s priests in confession 
knew, the thoughts of my heart and the 
purpose of my mind. And that, with the 
help of our Saviour and His Holy Mother, 
I’ll tell you before I go to His judgment- 
seat. I know you’ll be kind to her as ever 
when I’m gone, good Mother; but I can’t 
die till I give you the right story.” 

There was nothing else to be done. A 
new strength came to her voice and a new 
light to her eye as the pallid, stern-featured 
old woman, her hand clasped in that of 
the religious, related her story. 

‘T was a proud girl, good Mother, — the 
only daughter of respectable and well-to-do 

parents in N , Co. Tipperary. I was 

nicely reared, and had high notions about 
things, that maybe didn’t befit me; but we 
are as our nature is, and it’ shard to change. 
By reason of that and other things, I went 
without being married till I was past twenty- 
five; and that was considered old in those 
days. This boy was too rough, and that 
one too careless, and the other too fond 
of his own way or of his glass. ’Twas all 
equal, anyhow; and my father and mother 
fretted that I wouldn’t be said by them, 


366 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.’* 

and marry and settle down when I had 
good offers. 

“F'inally there came a young man from 
Dublin selling goods, and my father made 
him welcome to the house. We lived 
behind the shop and were nicely fixed. 
He was younger than I — this strange man, 
— and he had a very taking manner with 
him. My father was greatly pleased with 
his ways; and, not to make my tale too 
long, the match was settled three days after 
he came to the town. The wedding was 
to be in the spring; and my mother went 
to work, spinning and sewing and making 
ready. 

“I had a little cousin in Dublin, nurse- 
maid to a lady that came down to N 

once for the sea-bathing and took Kitty 
back with her. She was my mother’s sister’s 
child, and had been raised from infancy 
under our roof. I was very fond of her. 
Being eight years older, she seemed a girl 
to me; and so she was — hardly seventeen. 
Nothing would do my mother but that Cor- 
nelius should find her out, and bring back 
word of her when he came again. Well, 
he did; and, as he kept coming and going 
all the winter, he’d bring a message now 


TWO HEROINES. 


367 


and then from her. The letters were dear 
in those times; and, to save the post, I’d 
give him a bit of a line to Kitty whenever 
he came. 

“’Twas about Christmas- time when one 
day he arrived on a sudden. He told us 
he’d been to London, and that it was a 
grand city altogether. I minded after- 
ward that he wasn’t a bit uneasy in his 
ways, but just as light-hearted as ever. He 
was what you’d call a handsome man, 
with shining black hair and pink cheeks. 
Likely I wasn’t made for the love of any 
man, good Mother; for ’twas my pride that 
was wrapped up in him, not my heart. 
And some way, down in the depths of it, 
proud as I was, I felt from the very begin- 
ning that it was my father’s little penny 
he was after more than myself; for I wasn’t 
the kind of girl the like of him would fancy, 
— him that was so fond of a gay song and 
a lively dance and a funny joke. I was 
a quiet creature always, and thought cold 
by them that didn’t know me. Sometimes 
I wonder how I ever took up with him 
at all, unless ’twas a fine-sounding thing 
in my ears to be married to a bright, hand- 
some boy from Dublin. 


368 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

“Along toward Easter he came down 
and said he had bad news for us. Kitty 
had left her place of a sudden, and he 
could get no information of her. My 
mother fretted, and so did I; but — God 
forgive me! — she was not the first thing 
in my thoughts at that time; for all was 
for the marriage. I was to go up to Dublin 
after it, for that was his headquarters, and 
the girls were all envying me my good luck. 
But after it was over, and I settled in my 
own rooms in Dublin city, the first thing 
I did was to hunt up Kitty. My heart 
felt very sore when her lady told me she 
had got a beau some time during the past 
summer — a handsome young fellow, she 
said, — that seemed to turn the girl’s head 
altogether from her work and her place. 
And in December she had gone away of 
a sudden, taking her box and all belonging 
to her; and that was all that was known. 

“I went back to my lodgings with a 
heavy heart, expecting help and sympathy 
from Cornelius; but he gave me the first 
cross word when I told him of it, and bade 
me not bother in the quest of her. If she 
was all right, he said, she’d turn up some 
time; but he doubted if she was. Any 


TWO HEROINES. 


369 


way, she had treated those that raised her 
very ungrateful; and the less said and done 
about her, the better. So I sat down and 
wrote to my mother, as he bade me, that 
I could find no tidings of her. 

“Very soon I had my fill of another 
sorrow: my father and mother both died 
of a bad sore throat that was going round 
that winter. Cornelius and I went down 
to sell out the little furniture and goods, 
and arrange everything. I found myself 
with two hundred pounds to my fortune; 
and when we went back again to Dublin, my 
husband wanted that I should put it in a 
small haberdasher’s shop. He thought we 
could do well at that; he said it would be 
more comfortable, too, for him than to be 
travelling about as he was. Of late I had 
noticed him occasionally under the influence 
of drink, and I thought it came from being 
away so often and mingling with all sorts 
of people, as one meets travelling. 

“Without more ado, I put the money 
in his hand, for him to bank it; and the 
next morning when I rose there was a note 
on the table saying: ‘Mary, I’m gone to 
America. Don’t search for me: you’ll 
never find me.’ When I got over the first 


370 CHKONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

shock I went down to the bank. I found 
fifty pounds there to my credit; he had not 
been quite bad enough to leave me penni- 
less. I had a great struggle with myself 
to know what would I do, and at long last 
made up my mind to go to lyondon, — for 
my friends at home, I knew, I could never 
face again. What to do when I got there 
I left to the Providence of Almighty God and 
the help of His ever-blessed Mother. I 
had made but few friends in Dublin, and I 
stole away from it like a thief in the night, 
— ashamed to face those that might be ask- 
ing me questions. I had a pang of conscience, 
moreover, that I had neglected Kitty so 
long. In London I felt sure I would find 
her, poor girl! And the hope of seeing her 
buoyed me up in my trouble. 

“To London I went, and many an up 
and down I had there; but no sign of Kitty 
did I see, nor did I ever hear tell of her 
for two years or more. One rainy night 
I was hurrying home from the slop-shop 
where I sewed, when I met a woman 
coming out of a little court, a jug in her 
hand. She hadn’t changed much, though 
her clothes were poor and faded. ’Twas 
my own little Kitty. She knew me at 


TWO HEROINES. 


371 


once, and I went along with her to the 
baker’s for her jug of milk. Then I 
followed her up the dark, dirty stairs to 
a miserable excuse of a room. She opened 
the door. I saw a man lying on the bed. 

“ ‘Cornelius,’ says she, ‘who do you 

think I met ? My cousin Mary, from N . ’ 

There was no answer. She turned up the 
light and went over to him. Too late for my 
scorn or reproach, too late for my forgiveness 
had he wanted it, he lay there dead — my 
husband and the man that had deceived 
poor Kitty. Oh, it was then I had a 
terrible half hour, good Mother! The 
seven evil spirits seemed to be let loose in 
my soul, and Hashed her with bitter words, 
— her that had betrayed me and mine 
and ruined herself forever. She sat there 
beside the dead man, her head in her 
hands, and never a word came from her 
lips till I was done. 

“‘Mary,’ said she then, ‘the man that’s 
gone to his God this night wronged you 
and he wronged me; let the Almighty judge 
him. But I’m not the guilty thing you 
think me, for I never knew he was married 
to you. When were you married?’ 

“ ‘You poor unfortunate creature!’ I 


372 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

cried, ‘I was his wife well on to three years 
when you ran away from Dublin with 
him.’ And then, as I thought of the de- 
ception that had been done by the both 
of them, I rushed out of the house. 

“My passion was cooled by the morning, 
and my heart yearned for the poor thing, 
bad as I judged her; for the Blessed Mother 
of God had put kindly, forgiving feelings 
into my mind. I thought of the Magdalen; 
and I went out, in God’s name, to meet 
Kitty again. It was still early in the day, but 
they had taken the remains away already, 
and Kitty was sitting alone in the poor 
little room. On her knees she asked my 
pardon for the wrong she had done me; on 
my knees I gave it to her, and I said: 

“ ‘Kitty, what’s done is done; and I’m 
in a more Christian spirit this morning. 
If God ever put any one in another’s way. 
He did it last night when I met you for the 
first time, after searching for you here 
in London so long. You both wronged 
me; but it is past now, and he is dead. 
You’ve had a hard time with him, and he 
has gone to a more merciful Judge than I 
am. There’s only you and me left; and, 
with God’s help, we’ll be as we were,’ 


TWO HEROINES. 


878 


“And that’s the whole of the story, good 
Mother. From that day to this we were 
never parted; and if ever a woman atoned 
for a sin by repentance, and kindness to all 
sinners, and meekness and sweetness and 
charity, Kitty is that one. Bring her here 
to me now, good Mother, if she’s wakened; 
for I’m not easy when she’s away from me, 
especially in these last hours of my life.” 

Kitty was called, and the good Mother 
went to other duties. All through that 
day she sat by the bedside, attending to 
every wish of the dying woman, jealous 
of every ministration in which she did not 
share. The Sisters came and went at 
intervals till Benediction time, when the 
two friends were left alone together. After 
it was over the good Mother hastened again 
to the infirmary. Kitty was on her knees, 
her arms clasped about the body of her 
departed friend, who had apparently just 
breathed her last. She was speaking in 
low, crooning tones, as one would to a little 
child. “Mary, Mary,’’ she said, “that night 
thirty years ago when we met upon the 
streets of London, I made a promise to 
Almighty God. I deceived you, Mary; but it 
was no sin. You know it all now, darling; 


874 CHRONICLES OF “ THE LITTLE SISTERS.” 

and you know it was no sin. Mary, Mary 
asthore! I promised in that hour that no 
word of mine should add one blow to your 
breaking heart while I lived. The word 
I might have spoken I never spoke; but 
if I did wrong, you’ll forgive me now from 
the peace of heaven, where you’ll soon be, 
if you’re not in it already. O Mary, Mary, 
my poor lonely heart would be light if I 
could only feel for a certainty that you 
don’t harbor it agin me!” 

The good Mother attached no signifi- 
cance to these words at the time; but she 
recalled them later, when Kitty herself 
lay dying. 

Indian summer was on the wane when 
Mary Monahan went home to God, and 
her desolate friend and companion soon 
followed her. A slight cough developed 
into pneumonia, that insidious and relent- 
less foe of the aged and feeble. A short 
time previous to her death, she sent for the 
good Mother. 

“Good Mother,” she said, “I have some- 
thing to tell you before I go. Maybe it’s 
a weakness in me; for perhaps I ought to 
let well enough alone. I often think to 
myself, as I’m only a poor, lone woman. 


TWO HEROINES. 


876 


it doesn’t matter whether any one knows 
the truth or not; for there’s no one to suffer 
by it now. But you’ve been so good to me, 
and were so kind to her that’s gone before, 
I can’t die easy — for I know my end is 
near — without telling you the truth of my 
story, — something that she never knew, 
good Mother; for I kept it from her. The 
day she died she told me you knew it all; 
and so you did, as she knew it; but she 
didn’t know all. ’Twas / that was married 
to Cornelius Monahan, not poor Mary; and 
that’s God’s blessed truth.” 

“I do not understand, Kitty,” replied 
the good Mother. “How could it have 
been so?” 

“It was so, and I’ll tell you how, good 
Mother. When he came to me first where 
I was living, he told me not a word of how 
he stood with Mary and her people. I 
thought he was only an acquaintance. He 
began saying soft things to me from the 
first, and coaxed me into marrying him 
quietly. He wouldn’t let me tell my 
cousin, because he said he had had a 
misunderstanding with my uncle, Mary’s 
father. ’Twas to keep me from meeting 
Mary that he took me up to London. As 


876 CHRONICLES OF “THE LITTLE SISTERS.- 


far as lie could love any one, ’twas me he 
loved ; but he married her for the money. 
He was a villain, good Mother; and I soon 
found it out, though I never knew how 
he had deceived us both till I met Mary in 
London city. I was married to him six 
months before he made the sham second mar- 
riage with her,^^ 

“And yet you allowed her to believe that 
you had been deceived — that she was his 
real wife? ” 

“Yes, good Mother, I did; and I know 
God will not count it agin me. I did it for 
her sake. But she knows the how and 
why now, and ’twill be all right when we 
meet. I kept my marriage lines, good 
Mother; they’re in this old chamois bag 
about my neck. I’d like» you’d look at 
them, good Mother.” 

With some diflSculty she unfastened the 
bag — which was secured by a few strong 
stitches to the string of her Scapular, — 
producing at last a worn and soiled certifi- 
cate of the marriage of Cornelius Monahan 
and Kitty Ryan. ^\Tien the good Mother 
had read it, she replaced it in its receptacle, 
saying: 

‘ ‘I thought Mary a heroine when I heard 


TWO HEROINB8. Stt 

her story, Kitty; but now, without taking 
away any of her merit, I believe you are a 
still more admirable one. It is only in 
heaven that such fidelity and self-sacrifice 
are rewarded.” 

And Kitty, looking up at her with eyes 
smiling though tearful, answered: 

“’Twould have killed her, good Mother, 
if she knew. Mary was a very proud 
woman, and he brought her sorrow and 
shame enough as it was. ’ ’ 

It was on a crisp, cold morning, two 
days before Christmas, that they laid the 
faithful Kitty beside her friend and com- 
rade. A slight flurry of snow was sprink- 
ling the scattered graves as those who had 
accompanied the funeral turned to retrace 
their steps. 

“Poor Kitty!” said Sister Emilia. “We 
shall miss her at Christmas; she was 
always so full of devotion on that day. 
And Mary also.” 

“And I was just thinking,” replied the 
good Mother, looking upward to the fast 
clouding sky, — “I was just thinking to 
myself what a happy Christmas it will be 
for those two together in heaven.” 


378 CHB05ICLES 01* '^THE LITTLE BISTEBS*** 

All this and more vividly recurred to my 
mind the other day, as, turning over some 
old newspapers long stowed away and 
forgotten, I read in the mortality report: 
“Kitty Ryan. Aged seventy- two. I^ittle 
Sisters of the Poor.” Then and there I 
resolved that another story of Christian 
heroism should be recorded, — not the least, 
albeit the last, of the “Chronicles of ‘The 
I<ittle Sisters. ' ” 



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